The Will of the Gods
by StargazingED
Summary: "With the death of Ragnar Lothbrok, the gates of Valhalla had opened and the gods themselves had reached out to rake the flesh of the earth with their fingers. The arrival of House Dagny in Kattegat was a new beginning for Ivar Ragnarsson, a journey which began with a girl. A girl with blue hair and the magic of the gods dancing on her skin."
1. Brontide

Hello all,

As I'm sure you all now know, I have decided to completely re-write _The Will of the Gods._ The characters of House Dagny were a combination of many characters I have developed over the years and were incredibly vivid in my imagination – particularly Nala's character who was derived from Tazneem, the protagonist in my (now deleted) Game of Thrones fanfiction. Unfortunately, when I decided to post the original story, I had no fixed plot in mind and never re-read or edited my chapters. Most of the time I would bash out a few thousand words at 3am and post it without reading it back. Ultimately this led to a story that didn't do my original characters justice and one that I wasn't proud of.

Although I am sure some of you will not believe me, let me state this clearly – the negative reviews that I received both over private messages and in the comments, have no bearing on the decision to overhaul this story. Frankly I won't waste even a minute of my time responding to anonymous internet trolls. That being said, constructive criticism is always appreciated, and I am deeply, deeply thankful for everyone who voiced encouragement/feedback for the original version of this story.

The plot and the characters may have altered but the premise remains the same. I really hope you will all enjoy the new-and-improved _The Will of the Gods_ and please feel free to review, I love hearing your thoughts on my chapters.

-E.

* * *

 **Chapter I**

 ** _Brontide_** _– "The low and rumbling sound of distant thunder"_

 _Origin: English_

* * *

Ragnar Lothbrok was dead.

The gates of Valhalla had opened, and the Gods had reached out and raked the earth with their fingertips. The message of the Valkyries had been carried to every corner of Scandinavia; _come to Kattegat, avenge our most famous King_. And so, the warriors came. Every influential family, all the Kings, all the Jarls from Norway, Sweden and even Denmark poured themselves into the port of Kattegat and waited to claim their place in the sagas. Day after day and week after week, they continued to seep in until the growing town limits were stretched to breaking point. Kattegat was far too small for all these large names and these large egos; tensions were running high and factionalism ran rampant. For the poorer citizens, life became worse and anger began to grow. While the increasingly aggressive indigenous rat population swelled to the size of small cats, hungry families struggled to keep up with rising food prices. People were turfed unceremoniously from their homes to make room for the important visitors, and every day more citizens arrived at Lagertha's door looking for aid. Worse still, it seemed Queen Lagertha had to constantly pass judgement on some case or another; Jarls from rival clans were fighting indiscriminately, a shieldmaiden had been stabbed after rejecting a nobleman's advances, everywhere was plunged into drunken lawlessness. For the time being, the Queen had managed to maintain her authority, her word was still respected but whispers and chatter was spreading through the lower ranks. They said that Lagertha's strength lay simply in the power of her son, Bjorn Ironside, and that when he left for England she would be all alone and unprotected. It was dangerous talk and Lagertha knew it. Perception was king and if people perceived her as weak, that was how she would be treated. It could not be tolerated. So, the morning that yellow and blue sails appeared on the horizon, Lagertha felt a strange combination of anxiety and relief.

If Kattegat was the flock of sheep, then House Dagny of Sweden was the hungry wolf.

"What took you so long?"

"Were you chasing that potato seller's daughter again?" Sigurd swallowed a mouthful of bread and soup-soaked vegetables and wiped his lips roughly with the edge of his tunic sleeve. He grinned teasingly. "She's never going to fuck you, you know brother."

Hvitserk shoved the door to their cottage shut with his hip, juggling multiple wine casks from the marketplace in his arms. He dumped them on the table, flung himself down and slopped a ladle of steaming rabbit stew into his bowl. The scent of Margrethe's freshly baked sourdough loaf wafted into his nostrils and his belly grumbled. Margrethe was a real treat in bed but Hvitserk would happily trade in the chance of more sex for an unlimited supply of her bread. With Aslaug's death and Lagertha's ascension to the throne of Kattegat, the sons of Ragnar were removed from their childhood home and forced to take up residence in a new part of town. Too lazy and distracted to prevent their home descending into squalid disrepair, the boys had purchased a quiet, dark-haired female slave to provide the care they were accustomed to. As Hvitserk scarfed down the stew, red-hot liquid burning his tongue, he savoured the improvement. Sigurd's cooking had been truly terrible.

"Look at his teeth." Ubbe chuckled, sloping a fragrant red into his brothers' waiting cups. "How much wine did you drink, brother?"

"I like to try before I buy." Hvitserk flashed his wine-stained teeth in a cheeky smile before shoving another spoonful into his mouth greedily. "I saw the sails. They're here."

"Who?"

"House Dagny."

"What?"

"House _Dagny_." He had the look of little puppy with those big brown eyes of his, all playful and full of excitement. "I saw twenty or so boats, but people at the port said there are more on the way."

"How many more?"

"People said fifty. They're presenting themselves to Lagertha tonight."

"To that usurping bitch, why?" It was the first time Ivar had spoken. Ordinarily he would avoid unnecessary conversation with his brothers; often all they spoke about was women, predominantly that traitorous slut, the slave Margrethe. Ivar's skin itched at the thought of her; his vinegar soul wriggling uncomfortably. She was just a worthless slave after all, he could strangle her brutally in the dead of night and no one would care except his brothers. It wouldn't be difficult to convince them that it was an accident. But _Lagertha_ …the tyrant whore who had slaughtered his mother while her back was turned and desecrated his father's memory by taking his throne. Each time he saw Ragnar's raven banner flags replaced by her blue and black insignia in the throne-room, it made his stomach churn with rage. Ivar's fists curled closed atop the wooden table, crushing the chunk of bread in his hand into a shower of crumbs. He tried to imagine it was Lagertha's beating heart between his fingers.

"As much as you loathe it, brother, Lagertha _is_ Queen of Kattegat. It is a mark of respect."

"People are saying his wife is very beautiful. Maybe he's come just to show her off."

"Shut up," For perhaps the first time, Sigurd ignored the thought of a pretty woman and chimed in with something that sounded almost intelligent. Ivar raised an eyebrow at the rarity of the occasion. "King Brodir isn't here to parade his wife around the throne-room, Hvitserk. If Lagertha had a sensible thought in her head, she would show _them_ a mark of respect."

"What do you mean?"

"King Brodir is the King of all Sweden and his army outnumbers Lagertha's twelve-to-one, if she was clever she would make an ally of him and quickly."

In truth House Dagny's army outnumbered Lagertha's three-hundred-to-one. They had been the controlling family in Sweden for two generations and thanks to a complex mix of political marriages, gifted children and a brutal regime, they would hold on to that title for many generations to come. House Dagny's rise to true power began with the marriage of Brodir's grandparents, Scylding and Olga, and the consolidation of two Swedish clans which had been at war for decades. They were blessed with five strong sons who continued on in their parent's stead; breaking apart the remaining kingdoms and bringing them to heel beneath the Dagny name. King Brodir was the first monarch to rule over a unified Sweden and eventually that title would pass to one of his children or nephews. In truth Brodir, although a tyrant, had ensured that House Dagny would be the reigning force in Sweden far, far longer than any of their competitors would care to admit. Why? Their strength was that of the wolf pack; a wolf alone is vulnerable, but as part of the pack, they were indestructible. Family was key and King Brodir knew that as his children married into influential families, their position would only strengthen. House Dagny would forever live by those words; _family first, the world after._

 _An ally_. Ivar's thoughts climbed over themselves desperate to heard. He drank from his cup as he contemplated the situation, but before he could speak Ubbe beat him to it; he was so committed to becoming the voice of reason, the sensible big brother. In Ivar's humble, not-so-humble, opinion Ubbe didn't fit that role as perfectly as he might imagine. "They would be a powerful ally." He rubbed his beard as he thought about it. "Do you think its odd that King Brodir has brought such a big force with him?"

"Why do you say that?" Hvitserk was a step behind. He had downed a few cups of wine and the alcohol had gone to his head. Ivar rolled his eyes. Ragnar's ingenuity clearly hadn't been equally shared throughout his progeny.

"No," Sigurd replied. "The entire world has gathered in Kattegat. If he came to cement alliances with the rest of Scandinavia, this is his opportunity to show strength."

"They came to avenge Ragnar. King Brodir was one of his oldest friends, they fought in Paris together."

"Do not so foolish, Hvitserk." Ubbe muttered. "No one has comesolely to avenge Ragnar, there is always a selfish reason." He shrugged lightly. "Not that it matters as long as we get our army."

"It _does_ matter," Ivar snapped. "If Brodir has brought his full strength to Kattegat then he might not be looking for alliances at all, he might be looking for _weaknesses_ before House Dagny expand their territory into the rest of Scandinavia." He fiddled with his wooden spoon distractedly, scratching it's end against the table top.

"Lagertha has plenty of weaknesses," Sigurd shrugged. "Look at Kattegat's defences. If House Dagny wanted to, they could sail into the port and take control within the day."

"Do you think they would?"

"Who can say." Ubbe commented as he uncorked another cask of wine, Hvitserk had finished the first much more quickly than they had anticipated. The eldest son of Ragnar suspected his little brother had snuck more than a few sips on his way home from the marketplace. "It might be to our advantage anyway. Ivar's _desperate_ to see Lagertha de-throned and the next king of Kattegat would surely be one of us."

"Depends on King Harald, his fat little fingers have been reaching for that title longer than I can remember."

"He has children, doesn't he?" Hvitserk murmured more to himself than the others, slugging more wine into his cup clumsily. When he drank crimson wine trickled down his pale tunic. "He's more likely to be our ally than Lagertha's."

Ubbe shook his head impatiently. "Harald doesn't have children."

"No," Hvitserk hiccupped. "Brodir."

Ivar glanced up. "Wait, what did you say?"

"I _said_ he's more likely to be our ally. Brodir has five children and they're all too young for Lagertha." Hvitserk's eyes were blurry and his words were slightly slurred, but his point was sound.

"Hvitserk," Ubbe leaned his elbows on the table, a thoughtful look suddenly returning to his face. "You're right. He might be looking for marriages."

"So?"

Ivar and Ubbe locked eyes in sudden recognition. "If Brodir has brought most of his strength to Kattegat, perhaps he's trying to make Sweden seem more secure than it really is."

"Rumours would spread if he came with only a small force. It would look as if House Dagny was losing control and their armies were needed back in Sweden."

"There must be something brewing and he's looking for outside support. A marriage is the most permanent way of securing that."

"So, the question is, who will they choose?"

* * *

The throne-room was quiet except for the rhythmic clacking of Lagertha's fingernails against the carved surface of her chair arm. A sense of anticipation twisted through the room like bonfire smoke and those that had gathered waited in silence. Astrid's fingers curled and uncurled around the hilt of her broadsword. She had sharpened the blade that very morning. The sight of yellow and blue sails on the horizon made her heart rattle in her chest and something about the _scrape, scrape, scrape_ of the whetstone had soothed her nerves.

"Its rude of them to make you wait."

Lagertha didn't look in Astrid's direction, just continued rapping her nails as she concentrated. "It's better to have House Dagny as a friend than an enemy. We must show them respect."

"If you say so."

"I do." The conversation ended. Today of all days, Lagertha would not stand for Astrid's insolence.

At that moment the large doors to the throne-room swung open, the wooden planks creaking with age, and House Dagny made their entrance. "Queen Lagertha," King Brodir's voice boomed across the room like the sudden appearance of thunderclouds. "It is a great privilege to stand before you." He reached the foot of the dais and smiled insincerely up at her. Brodir was an imposing man; tall and corded with layers of aging muscle, salt-and-pepper strands scattered throughout his braids. She didn't like the crinkled way he was watching her, analysing her with those glinting snake-like eyes of his. "People speak of your beauty, but they do not do you justice."

"We are happy to receive you, King Brodir. House Dagny was always a good friend to Ragnar."

"Yes, a fine man. Those in Valhalla are truly blessed." King Brodir gestured to his surrounding family. "I must introduce my children; my eldest Calder and his wife Ingrid the Black, Hallad, and my twins Varin and Gudrik." Lagertha cast her eyes over the boys carefully. They were all tall and stocky and tattooed, with the darkest hair she had ever seen. Brodir had been fortunate to have bred such strapping children. The youngest boys seemed a little less intimidating, perhaps Lagertha detected a hint of mischievousness in them that clearly wasn't present in their father. As an afterthought Brodir indicated the silvery women at his side. "And this is my wife, Sibbe, a princess of Denmark." Sibbe dipped her head respectfully in the Queen's direction. _Young_ , was all Lagertha could think, _far too young._ "Of course, the rest of my family will be joining us soon. I have left them to supervise the movement of our remaining boats."

"Welcome." Lagertha wasn't sure what to say. _Gods, the Dagny clan have unnatural eyes_. She could feel all those sets of far-too-large, far-too-dark, far-too-reflective eyes crawling over her skin like ants. Fighting the urge to itch, Lagertha linked her fingers together nonchalantly.

"We brought these gifts," Brodir gestured to the barrels and crates carried by some of his warriors. "To show our respect. Of course, we could have brought Kattegat's beautiful queen some sort of trinket, but we imagined you would appreciate these crops more than precious stones."

The warriors carried the cargo to the foot of Lagertha's dais, opened them and displayed large piles of potatoes, salted-pork, carrots and turnips. There were bundles of maize and wooden kegs of dark ale. It was a generous offer, one which could feed many of Kattegat's most needy citizens for weeks, but one which made Lagertha bristle. House Dagny clearly doubted the Queen's ability to protect and care for her subjects. Perhaps the insinuation stung because Lagertha _had_ been failing her most vulnerable recently. She didn't like thinking about that. "Thank you." Her shieldmaidens stacked the crates carefully at the back of the throne-room without hesitation.

"Kattegat has changed," Calder remarked, almost pleasantly. "Much larger now than I remember it."

"Yes, the past years have been very kind. Kattegat is now the largest trading centre in the region."

"And yet your defences are so weak," Hallad mused. His eyes flicked over the shieldmaidens surrounding the dais. "You should reinforce the security of your port."

"Kattegat's defences are not yet fully constructed." Astrid said a little more harshly than she intended, and the boy raised an amused eyebrow at the reaction. He inclined his head politely by way of apology.

"Varin and I are responsible for Sweden's largest coastal kingdoms," Gudrik informed her. "The defences we had built are extremely robust."

His twin continued. "We will send one of our architects to assist you, if you require it."

"That is not necessary." Lagertha didn't like the way they were looking at her, the way they were analysing the warriors present in her throne-room. There was a sense of self-assurance in the way they spoke which irked Lagertha deeply; so arrogant, so charismatic. She knew that House Dagny were probing for weaknesses, looking for a hole in the wall that they might one day climb through, but their sincerity was so well rehearsed it was clear why so many had fallen for it in the past. Either way, taking the help they offered was unwise. If Lagertha indeed used Dagny architects to rebuild Kattegat's defences, she was essentially drawing them a map into her city.

"Regardless, the offer stands."

Lagertha swallowed back the brewing anger and changed the subject. "Have you been offered appropriate accommodation?"

"We have, your citizens have been most welcoming. I was surprised there was any room left for us, Kattegat must be almost full." Brodir replied jovially. "Are we waiting on the arrival of further forces?"

"The Great Army is growing daily, my son Bjorn Ironside estimates an additional thirty boats from our Norwegian friends are yet to dock."

"Ahh, yes I remember Ragnar's first son." Brodir flashed his crooked teeth. It almost seemed genuine. "What a strong young lad, I look forward to our reunion."

"I am sure he shares that feeling." _I'm sure he doesn't_.

"I have heard that leadership of our Great Army will be shared equally by _all_ of Ragnar's sons."

"That is true."

"An interesting approach." Calder muttered in his wife's ear, and then to Lagertha. "We look forward to meeting them. If they are anything like their father, we are in safe hands."

"I agree."

"How many warriors has House Dagny contributed?" Astrid cut in roughly. It was clear she had not taken to the Swedes very well. Brodir cocked his head a little as he surveyed her. His gaze, though not as dark as his childrens', was unnerving; Lagertha equated it to the feeling of a bug beneath a piece of glass, as if you could be set ablaze at any moment. To her credit, Astrid managed to maintain her composure.

"In all…seventy or so boats and warriors to fill them." Varin told her.

"My shieldmaidens will arrive within the fortnight if the weather is favourable." Ingrid the Black spoke for the first time. Her voice had a sort of scratchy quality to it that was oddly appealing. Lagertha had heard of her of course. Ingrid had been a famous shieldmaiden in her own right before she had married Calder. After joining the Swedish royal family, she had developed an elite all-female fighting unit, often used as House Dagny personal security and as the official interrogators, un-official torturers, of prisoners. When it came to stamping out political dissent, they were widely considered to be some of the most violent warriors in Sweden. The queen hadn't expected her to be quite so attractive though, or that since her title was 'Ingrid the Black' that her hair would the colour of freshly spilled blood. It must be meant ironically, like Halfdan's title was. Idly, Lagertha wondered what their children must look like; such bright red hair mixed with such potent black. "My second in command admires you greatly, Queen Lagertha. I know she would be most privileged to meet you."

"When she arrives, you may present her to me."

King Brodir continued. "A further force is following a few days behind."

"Why is that?"

"They wished to visit the Temple of Uppsalla on their way here."

Lagertha's heartbeat seemed to slow and her skin cooled all over; she could hear the rushing of her pulse in her ears like the tides of the ocean. King Brodir's lips quirked into a crooked little smile as if he could sense the icy anxiety began to pool in the pit of Lagertha's stomach. _Sly as a snake that one_. "My daughter is on her way." Almost like distant thunder rolling through the hills, his words reverberated around the throne-room. They echoed off the wooden ceiling beams, shivered over Lagertha's skin. The name that the Seer had whispered in Lagertha's ear, the name that had been muttered in the shadows, the religious faction which had haunted her dreams. The cult which would be her undoing. _Our_ _undoing._

"The Ullacs are coming to Kattegat."

* * *

All across Kattegat that night, conversations of the same nature were occurring. The moon hung heavy in the sky like a watchful father and political advancement was the topic at every influential dinner table. The giants of Viking society were making plans, after all it made sense to identify future alliances or enemies while the entire world was gathered in one place.

"You should have seen them, Bjorn." Lagertha and her son were eating supper alone in the royal residence. The Queen sipped her wine moodily, staring at the flames crackling in the fire grate. "You should have _heard_ what they were saying."

"I can imagine." Bjorn Ironside didn't look up, just chewed a piece of meat thoughtfully. "Brodir is notoriously arrogant."

Lagertha settled her elbows on the table and watched her only child, now not a child, as he ate. He was such a strong, handsome man. "They are dangerous."

"Yes, they are."

"In time, Brodir may turn his eyes on Kattegat. We control a valuable trading point. If House Dagny attacked, we would not be able to prevent them."

Bjorn leaned back in his chair and drank from his cup. The cogs in his mind turning. "Then what would you have us do?"

"We must form an alliance."

"A trading deal could work."

"No," Lagertha continued. She interlinked her fingers, almost hesitantly. "Trade can be dissolved, this must be permanent. It must be a marriage."

"We have no one to offer. Brodir is already married."

"I was not suggesting myself."

"Mother, no."

"He has a daughter, unmarried and young."

" _No_ ," Bjorn snapped, pointing his finger at the Queen. "Do not even suggest it. I will not disregard the mother of my children, I won't disregard Torvi."

"We have _limited_ choice – other than her, he has only sons or nephews and you have no sisters."

A sharp stab of pain buried itself in her chest and Lagertha chastised herself for not thinking of her fallen daughter more often. She tried to calculate how many years it had been since Gyda had died. The Queen's mind strained trying to form the picture of her daughter's face but it wouldn't appear. Gyda's features were murky, as if Lagertha had opened her eyes under water. What kind of mother forgot her own child? Her beautiful little girl. Gyda had been Ragnar's only daughter and Lagertha suddenly wondered if he too had forgotten her when his new sons were born. It felt like an eternity since they had lived as simple farmers, Bjorn and Gyda running around in the fields, Ragnar smoking his pipe by the campfire. A deep, aching longing raked through her body as she thought about it. They should have stayed at the farm; their whole lives would have played out differently if they had just _stayed_ at the farm

A slave bent forward to refill her wine cup and suddenly the hollowness she felt seemed to ebb away. If they had stayed at the farm Lagertha wouldn't be sitting in that throne-room. She would not have an army of shieldmaidens, she would not be Queen of Kattegat. The most famous woman in Norway straightened her shoulders in satisfaction. Lagertha was of strong character and the Gods had obliged her with plenty of battles. She decided that she could handle House Dagny. The sound of Bjorn's firm rebuttal drew her from her meandering thoughts.

"Stop this talk." Lagertha may be queen of Kattegat but Bjorn was the eldest son of Ragnar and commander of the Great Heathen Army, he would not be dictated to. Especially when it came to marriage. He loved Torvi and she had given him many children, but he was unwilling to marry even her. He refused to bind himself to a complete stranger. "I will not marry Brodir's daughter. The alliance must be based on trade."

Lagertha slapped her hand on the table in anger. "Another will marry her, and we will all be in danger. Would you care to see King _Harald_ ruling Kattegat?"

"Of course not. Who says Harald would be offered her hand at all?"

"He is the second most influential ruler in Norway."

"And Scandinavia is a large place. Brodir married Danish royalty, who is to say that his daughter will not do the same."

"That is precisely my point, Bjorn." Lagertha was reaching the end of her patience. She gestured to a slave and her cup was refilled swiftly. "With Sweden and Denmark united, our position would be infinitely more precarious."

"I'll not continue to discuss this foolishness." Bjorn drained his cup and stood from the table. His enormous frame nearly blocked out the light from the fire. "Brodir has sons, if you are so desperate for a marriage alliance, try your luck with one of them. Goodnight, Lagertha." Then he swept from the room.

* * *

"I thought that was quite beneficial." Calder remarked.

The younger generation of House Dagny were gathered beside the fire grate in comfortable chairs, sipping wine. In the jumping light, they looked almost like shadows, all angles and glowing eyes.

Varin scoffed loudly. "That much was clear."

The boys glanced teasingly at each other and, as was their custom, his twin continued. "You should learn the art of subtlety, brother."

"What are you saying, runt?"

Gudrik cracked a wolfish smile at the insult. "You were almost salivating."

"Fuck off."

"In fairness, Calder, you were practically dismantling her throne with your eyes." Hallad confirmed, his tone indicating amusement.

"As if I would be interested in ruling this shit hole." Calder muttered. "Have you looked around? Kattegat's rats are larger than its children."

"I would have thought you'd like the company of rodents, brother."

"Shut up." Calder tossed an empty wine cup in his younger brother's direction. It was almost playful, almost.

In truth the oldest Dagny boy was the least likable of the brothers. Perhaps that was why he was favoured by King Brodir; they shared so many of the same unpleasant traits. Calder was cold and ambitious, he lacked the affable mischievousness of the twins or Hallad's reasonable nature. He was quick to anger and, without his wife Ingrid's rationality, would have fallen into plenty of political pot-holes. The underlying bitterness he felt towards his brothers and sister was poorly disguised. He pretended it was disappointment, that he disapproved of them because they did not share his devout and unreserved loyalty to House Dagny, but that was a lie. Frankly they had grown up too many years apart; while Hallad and the twins and their sister had moulded into each other, grown together like branches of an intertwined tree, Calder had become a man in the long shadow of his father. His early years had been lonely and when he saw the others laughing and joking and playing together, that loneliness had transformed into bitter jealousy. Calder had spent his life attempting to equal his father, but every day that his younger siblings became more accomplished and influential, he fell further in King Brodir's regard. It infuriated him.

"Enough of this foolishness."

"Father." The boys stood up respectfully and did not return to their positions until the King had seated himself. A slave poured Brodir a cup of expensive red wine and the man relaxed into his chair.

"So," He began. "Let us speak of Dagny business. Hallad, report."

The second oldest shifted. Finding yourself under the King Brodir's spotlight was never a comfortable experience. "I investigated the rumours of dissent in the northern foothills and it was more developed than we had expected. A small faction of my men took control of the village, discovered the perpetrators and executed them in the square. During interrogation we found connections with several other small villages." Hallad scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Father, these rebellions are increasing in size."

"I am aware of that. What are you doing to combat them?"

"While we are in England, I have deployed cousin Otkell to our outpost at the base of the mountains and increased the warrior numbers in the effected villages."

Brodir rubbed his beard. "Why Otkell?"

"His sons are getting to a good age, I thought this would be an opportune moment for them to learn how Dagny business is handled."

"Prudent. Varin, Gudrik; speak."

"The coastal towns and the ports have been reinforced. We increased security checks on incoming boats and built a beacon line between the largest fjord and our inland bases. If an attack were to come, additional warriors would arrive swiftly."

"We left only the most loyal Dagny warriors in positions of strength and everyone is on high alert." Varin continued. Calder glared at his brothers, they were becoming far too intelligent for his liking.

"That is acceptable." Was his only answer. King Brodir did not give compliments and his sons had stopped seeking them years ago. He changed the subject. "While we are with the Great Army we must be vigilant for possible allies. When we return to Sweden I expect you all to be married and married _usefully_."

There was a small, pregnant pause before Gudrik asked. "When will she come?"

"There was a raven waiting when we docked, with good weather Ullac sails will broach the horizon in two days."

Calder splintered the tension, almost gleefully. He had little patience for his sister's rebellious ways, he looked forward to seeing her married. With any luck it would be to someone she despised. "Who have you chosen for her?"

"I have not made a final selection yet, boy." _Boy_. The word stung Calder's insides. "It is a difficult decision and one we must make intelligently. There are battle lines forming, I can smell it in the air, feel it in my bones like an ache. One day soon the war for Kattegat will come and we must choose a side."

"The choice is between Lagertha and Harald Finehair," Hallad shrugged. "I would support neither."

"Thankfully the choice is not _yours_ to make." Brodir snapped. "We will bide our time and select the most beneficial alliance when it is offered."

Varin dared to ask what they were all thinking. "What if she refuses?"

"I am her King, she will obey me."

"Father," Gudrik started cautiously. "That may be true…but you know our sister cannot be compelled into something she does not support."

"Well, I have had my fill of her insolence." The King rapped his fingers against the chair-arm, with that deadly calculating look in his eyes that his children all feared. "It is time your sister came to understand the truth of our clan. Dagny loyalty must come before anything else."

Unsaid words hung heavy in the air like incense, like gathering storm clouds, like thunder rolling over far-away hills. For their sister, no loyalty would come before the will of the Gods.


	2. Hiraeth

**Chapter II**

 _ **Hiraeth** – "A homesickness for a home you cannot return to or that never was"_

 _Origin: Welsh_

* * *

It had been several days since the arrival of House Dagny in Kattegat and their boats had been pouring into the port ever since, the fjord had been utterly consumed by blue and yellow sails. It seemed as if their name was on everyone's lips and frankly the sons of Ragnar were already tired of it. This was _their_ army after all. Although increasing numbers of their warriors could be spotted around Kattegat, King Brodir's direct family were curiously absent. Even at night, when the visiting nobility would gather to feast in Lagertha's throne-room, they did not appear. People would crane their necks for a glimpse each time the doors creaked open, but each time it was a disappointment.

Ivar the Boneless was growing more restless everyday. The far-too-full town was suffocating him and each morning he would drag himself away from his brothers and disappear into the quietness of the forest. It was almost like dipping your head beneath the surface of a lake; the noise was dulled out and everything seemed silkier, more at peace.

"Why are they hiding?" Ivar muttered. He lay in the grass, shredding the petals from a mountain daisy with his fidgeting fingers. The day had a mild temperature to it, surprising for that time of year, and there was even some warmth coming from the watery sunlight. The boy shifted onto his left side and stared up at the skeleton of a half-built boat.

"Not hiding, _waiting_." Floki clambered over the planks with the agility of a monkey. His spindly fingers worked at the complicated knots; tying, undoing and re-tying until perfect. The boat-builder looked a little deranged when he laboured away out here in the forest, even Ivar could admit that.

"Waiting for what?"

"For their full," He paused, grunting, as he tugged roughly on a rope. "Strength."

"What are you talking about, you mad old bastard? Everyone can see their full strength, they've over taken Kattegat's port."

"No, no, not all the pieces are here yet."

"What?"

"Pass me that hammer." Ivar crawled over and tossed the hammer at Floki's feet. He leaned his elbows on the ledge and watched Floki dance around the boat, hammering in nails here and there. After a long while watching him work, Ivar pressed the question again.

"Floki."

"Yes, boneless?"

"Tell me what you mean."

"About House Dagny?"

"Of course about House Dagny, you idiot."

The older man swung down, took a seat on the ledge and drank from his water-skin thoughtfully before speaking. "They'll be waiting for his daughter."

"Why?"

"Brodir has five children," Floki counted it out on his fingers and then wriggled them in front of Ivar's face. He chuckled that odd, throaty laugh of his. "each one important, each one responsible for a different piece of Sweden."

"So?" Ivar's patience for riddles was thinning.

"His daughter is their religious leader." Floki scratched distractedly at a scabbing sore on his forearm and then sucked at the fresh blood beginning to clot there. His blood-smeared lips tucked up into a grin when he saw Ivar grimace. "People say she is a witch."

"Is she?"

"Can't say, never met her." Ivar leaned his chin on his elbows watching the boat-builder. His dark eyes were sparkling curiously as he spoke, his fingers twitching around haphazardly. It was clear that Floki was intrigued. "People whisper about the Ullacs. Who can say what is truth and what is not?"

* * *

Two days later, everything seemed to change in Kattegat. New sails had appeared on the horizon and word began to spread of another's arrival, people were saying that King Brodir's only daughter had finally come. It was like a pebble dropped into still water; rumours spread so quickly and in so many directions that nobody could be quite sure where they had started. It was impossible to know if there was any truth in the tales peddled by the gossip-mongers at the docks, but that didn't stop their stories spreading faster than a match burned. The day was impeccably clear, blue sky and pale sun shining, when the sails were first spotted. Kattegat's citizens watched from the shore, but the boats never docked. They veered away to the left and behind the gulf of the cliffs, out of sight. Little children ran off along the pebbled beach, scrambling over each other and up the rocks in pursuit of them.

Day dragged into evening and evening dragged into night. The chalky moon had crested overhead and Lagertha's residence was alive with music and drunken chatter, the smell of roasted meat drifting out each time the doors opened. Near the dais, sat close enough to show their standing in Kattegat's society, were the sons of Ragnar. Ivar hated those feasts, hated the endless evenings of greetings and platitudes. He hated seeing Lagertha's smug, usurping face looking down from the throne; the throne that had once belonged to his father and then to his mother. He just wanted to leave Kattegat. Why was it taking so long? They had been drinking for several hours when House Dagny finally made an appearance, like a pack of dark-haired wolves.

"King Brodir," Lagertha called across the bustling hall. The chatter quietened slightly. Ivar glanced up from the table top where he had been whittling his mother's name with a sharp dagger. Lagertha may have taken Aslaug's throne, but Ivar was determined to leave a mark of his mother in the residence that was once their home. "Welcome."

"Thank you for hosting us, Queen Lagertha." He had a husky kind of voice; powerful yet not excessively loud. It was more pleasant than Ivar expected it to be.

"I heard something interesting today."

"Did you?"

"I did." Lagertha's face was cool and composed but the entire throne-room seemed to sense that she was treading on dangerous ground. If you didn't know Brodir, his smile might have looked affable, charming even, but the Queen convinced herself that she wasn't so easily fooled. "I heard that your daughter had arrived in Kattegat."

"She has."

"Why then, has she not presented herself to me?"

The Dagny boys glanced at each other, smirking with amusement, muttering amongst themselves. King Brodir spread his arms in appeasement. "The Ullacs have made camp in the forests, not in Kattegat. They will come when they come." He raised a freshly filled cup of wine in her direction and smiled that sly smile of his. "Come now, let us enjoy this evening. _Skäl_." The crowd echoed his sentiments, but the atmosphere of tension was tangible. Lagertha pursed her lips as she raised her cup. Anger was burning on her features. Ivar allowed a rare smile as he sipped his drink. Any occasion where Lagertha was put in her place was a cause for celebration. _Just look at her face._

"Who is that?" Hvitserk murmured, his eyes fixed on the Dagny table. The firelight made him look so innocent, made his big brown eyes soft and shiny. Ubbe glanced over and then chuckled.

"Brodir's wife, the third one."

"She's beautiful."

"Of course she is, Brodir divorced his last wife for her."

Hvitserk just stared at Sibbe from across the room. She really was a beautiful young woman, with a sheet of waist-length silvery hair and eyes the colour of day-old ice. Her features had a delicate, elven look to them which seemed so out of place amongst the angular members of House Dagny. Sibbe seemed to Hvitserk like a rose among thorns, like dappled sunlight on the surface of the open ocean.

"Gods, she's young enough to be his daughter." Sigurd slurred as he swung down onto the bench beside his brothers. He ripped a chunk of meat from a chicken leg roughly and chewed it with his mouth open. His drunken, beady eyes were fixed on the Dagny table and it was not difficult to identify the object of his irritation. "They think a lot of themselves, don't they?"

Ubbe's gaze shifted to the twins. Brodir's children were all attractive, even the sons of Ragnar could objectively admit that, but it was the twins who stood out in a crowd. They were all wild dark hair and wolfish grinning. Already they were surrounded by giggling women, mainly from Kattegat as the Dagny shieldmaidens didn't seem to smile much, and it clearly bothered Sigurd deeply. Perhaps it was due to _one_ in particular, a blonde called Gaia whom Sigurd had pursuing for several weeks. Varin was toying with one of her braids and talking flirtatiously.

"Are you honestly surprised, brother? House Dagny are famous."

Sigurd's fists clamped shut and his brow crumpled with irritation. In truth, Ubbe was a little surprised that he cared so much about a girl. Ragnar's sons had always secretly believed he preferred the company of men, though they never spoke of it out loud, or at least not within Sigurd's hearing. Ubbe suddenly found himself wondering if Sigurd was eying _Varin_ and not Gaia at all, perhaps he was jealous that it wasn't _his_ braid the Dagny boy was playing with. As if Varin could hear their words, his head turned, and his alien eyes roved over them carefully. The twins muttered between themselves for a moment and then began walking in their direction. Ivar hadn't been listening. He had been watching the King and his sly smile and the way his eyes glinted in the jumping firelight. _They all have those awful eyes_ , he thought. _Big and dark and glassy, full of secrets. Full of lies_. So, when Gudrik clunked his wine cup down on the table, Ivar almost flinched in surprise.

"Well," Varin crossed his arms over his muscled chest, grinning. "These must be the sons of Ragnar."

"Ubbe, Hvitserk," Gudrik pointed at each of them in turn. "Sigurd and Ivar. We have been looking forward to finally meeting you. I am Gudrik and this is my brother, Varin."

Ubbe played the role of the gracious host and got to his feet, taking Gudrik's forearm in his own. "Good to meet you, sons of Brodir."

As he retook his seat, the twin's turned their attention on Sigurd. He had a sour look on his face that they seemed to find endlessly amusing. "You were giving us quite the eye, friend. Have we done something to offend you?"

"No." Sigurd got to his feet and stalked off without another word. The twins watched him go, chuckling. The moved like two pieces of a puzzle, always in sync; their playful energy bouncing off each other, as natural as breathing. Almost like a magic trick, entirely in unison, they flashed two sets of crooked, white teeth.

"Is your brother always so cheerful?"

"He is just in a bad mood."

It didn't seem to affect the twins at all, they just carried on smiling. "You all must be looking forward to the raid."

"We are, and we are happy to have Dagny's support. _Skäl._ " Ubbe clinked his cup against Varin's.

" _Skäl."_ The twins drank, and it seemed their interaction was at an end. "Enjoy your evening."

Ivar glared at their backs as they sloped off. They walked with the self-assurance that came from being tall and handsome and famous, with a life full of possibility. They walked the way that his brothers walked. _They walked._ A suffocating feeling tightened in his chest and his throat closed up as if he was choking on a piece of half-chewed food. The throne-room was suddenly unbearable hot, the stuffy air pressing down on him. He had to get out. Ivar itched for cold air on his skin. He wanted to drown himself in the quietness of the forest. _Can't breathe_.

Without a word, he dropped onto his belly and crawled away. People stared at him and as much as he tried not to care, the needles of spite and insecurity poked at his belly. Maybe it was fear he could taste in his mouth, the fear of showing weakness.

* * *

"What were you saying to the sons of Ragnar?" King Brodir snarled under his breath. "I do not need your mischief making us any enemies."

"We were just introducing ourselves." Gudrik replied lightly, though he didn't dare smile.

"Father," Varin cut in quietly. "House Dagny should show them some respect, at least in _public_. Everyone is here for them." He was leaning against the edge of the table, reaching for his wine cup when it happened; when King Brodir buried a two-pronged fork into his son's flattened hand. Varin's jaw clenched so tightly shut his teeth might have shattered, but to his credit, the only sound he made was a low exhale.

"If I have not asked for your opinion," Brodir muttered, his fist still closed around the handle of the fork. "I do not expect to hear it."

"I apologise, father." Varin managed through gritted teeth. It must have been sufficient for Brodir because he removed his hand and got to his feet.

The King shook his head as he surveyed his twin sons. "Go to the forests, find my disrespectful excuse of a daughter and _remind_ her of what needs to be done."

"Yes father."

"Remove yourselves from my sight. I must speak with King Harald." Without spectacle, Gudrik yanked the fork from his brother's hand and the boys disappeared in silence. Sibbe watched them go with a sinking feeling in her stomach. _Brodir will be in a foul mood tonight_. She wrung her hands nervously. His anger had been directed at her enough times for her to know when it was coming. King Brodir was looking at her like a piece of meat on a butcher's slab, ready to be carved up. "Stay here, woman."

As he strode away Sibbe breathed a sigh of relief. She had been so excited when King Brodir had arrived in her father's throne-room demanding her hand in marriage. He had stood at the foot of the King's dais in an exquisite yellow cloak with a fox-fur collar, smiling up at her. Even with his age, he was handsome and strong. He seemed like the kind of man she had dreamed about; the warrior who would break down her father's door and take her away from all her sadness. He had whisked her away that very night and as they had arrived in Sweden Sibbe had felt tears in her eyes, she had been so happy.

She remembered being twenty-three years old and their wedding night, remembered waiting for her new husband in a white nightgown. A crown of naivety and wildflowers on her head. Of course she had been right to be nervous, because when Brodir had stumbled into their bedchamber drunk out of his mind, he had been anything but gentle. That night she came to a realisation that many women come to in their lives; that she had simply traded one bully for another and that she would never be truly free. Even so, Sibbe had tried her hardest to be a good and honourable wife, to love him in spite of his cruelty, but in her heart…she despised him.

Brodir's younger children were good to Sibbe and for that, at least, she was grateful. Perhaps they took pity on her because she was young enough to be their sister, or perhaps it was because they had glimpsed the mottled bruises which too often marked her pale skin. Brodir never hit her face of course, or at least not hard enough to leave a mark. _You are too pretty for that_ , he would tell her. Calder was as cold like his father, but the younger ones had always been kind. Even his daughter, who wasn't usually kind to anyone except her brothers or her tribe of Ullacs. All Sibbe had longed for was a proper home, a loving home, and she was delivered a bed of ashes instead. Sometimes in her dreams she still imagined that home; the burning fire in the grate, little children tugging at her skirts and a kind, handsome husband to take her in his arms. Sibbe felt a desperate aching for a home that did not exist, a home which would _never_ exist.

"Hello." Sibbe broke from her thoughts and looked up. Big, brown eyes and a handsome smile looked back at her. "You seemed lonely…I thought you might like a drink." He placed a cup of wine down in front of her.

"Thank you."

"I'm Hvitserk."

Sibbe cracked a shy smile as he slid into the chair opposite her. "I know who you are. You are a son of Ragnar."

"I am, and you are King Brodir's wife."

She hated those words. "Sibbe."

"Good to meet you, Sibbe." It felt like a cloak had slipped over Sibbe's shoulders. The way he sat there beaming at her made her feel warmer than she had in years. _Not that it matters,_ she told herself. _Married, married, married and never to be free_. "Why has your husband left you here, all alone?"

"He is talking with King Harald."

"And he did not want to show you off?" Hvitserk crinkled his eyebrows in playful confusion. "What a fool." If it was possible to climb inside someone's smile, she would have climbed inside Hvitserk's.

Sibbe chewed at her bottom lip, unsure if she should be nervous. In the end self-preservation won out because as much as she wanted to _believe_ Hvitserk was genuine, her past experiences with men had forced her to become cautious. Her answer was tentative. "He is a very private man."

"I see."

The girl hesitated, took a sip of her wine and then spoke. "I suppose you are looking forward to the raid. I am sure Ragnar would be proud."

"We all are. It seems my brothers and I have waited an eternity to avenge our father."

"Sorry to have caused you a delay."

Hvitserk shrugged, his smile never faltering. "I would not mind waiting for you, Sibbe."

"One day," She told him, blushing like a little girl. "I think your words may get you into trouble, Hvitserk."

"Oh, they have. Many times."

Sibbe's eyes flicked from him to her husband. He was halfway across the room and yet his eyes burned her. They were glittering in that horrible dangerous way that she had learned to fear. Hvitserk glanced over his shoulder, following her gaze, and then sighed. "Perhaps you are worried my words may get _you_ into trouble."

"Perhaps."

"Then I will leave you, my Queen." Hvitserk flashed her another crooked grin but there was a sad softness in his eyes. "I would never wish to cause you anything but happiness." He reached out and squeezed her slender fingers. The wedding band on her finger bit harshly into her skin. _Married, married, married and never to be free_. She sighed; her chest feeling heavy, her bones feeling hollow.

"It was nice to meet you, Hvitserk."

"The privilege was mine."

* * *

"Is your hand alright?"

Ivar flattened into the undergrowth.

"Fine." The sound of trudging footsteps echoed somewhere off to the left.

"Where do you think she is?"

"Knowing our sister, somewhere difficult to find."

There was a beat of silence.

"She is going to cause trouble."

"When doesn't she?"

"No, I mean it Varin," Ivar's ears pricked. _King Brodir's sons_. He rolled over onto his belly to try and catch a glimpse of them through the bushes. "Brodir is on the edge. We are all playing with fire here."

Varin pulled Gudrik to a complete stop. Even from a distance, Ivar could see their large, glassy eyes glinting in the moonlight. _Gods they have strange eyes._ "He is not going to hurt our sister."

"He has hurt her before."

"That was then. That was before the Ullacs."

"Do you think he is afraid of them?"

"We both know that he should be, brother."

The voices were getting quieter, ebbing into the distance so Ivar began to crawl after them. _Ullacs._ That was the second time he had heard that name today. _Ullacs and Brodir's only daughter_. The twins were striding away through the trees on long, sturdy legs and Ivar struggled to keep up with them.

 _Ivar…_

The boy's skin prickled all over. He froze. His eyes darted around, searching for something, anything. In the darkness the trees looked almost skeletal, their branches seemed like reaching fingers, but they weren't human. He dragged himself up onto a boulder to get a better look, and his senses had not been wrong. Something or someone was there. Like sorcery, figures seemed to solidify in the liquid dimness of the forest. Ivar couldn't get a good look at them. In amongst the trees, those hulking bodies looked just like shadows. _Shadows and smears of pale paint_.

"She sent you?"

There was no answer, but the twins followed them anyway. They approached a pair of trees whose branches were curled and intertwined, arching overhead. The longer Ivar looked, the more those trees seemed like a doorway. As the twins passed between them, they melted into the semi-darkness. In the distance Ivar could hear the thud, thud, thudding of faraway drums. Vibrations filtered through his veins. There was a smell drifting through the air, heavy as gathering storm clouds. It reminded him of the earth after heavy rain, of Aslaug's perfume, of bonfire smoke. His chest ached. It smelled so perfect.

 _Ivar…_

"Mother?" He whispered into the inky black surroundings. Ivar's mind felt a thousand miles away, he felt dizzy and yet somehow clear. It was a strange, delectable, all-encompassing feeling.

 _Come…_

Ivar wasn't sure what he should do, whether or not he should follow them. As if the forests had heard his thoughts, a raven landed on a branch several feet to his right. The creature studied him with intelligent eyes, cawing softly and then flew off in the direction the twins had gone. Ivar followed slowly. It was almost as if he didn't have a choice. There was a pulling on his chest, as if there was a rope tethered there, dragging the breath from his lungs.

The youngest son of Ragnar paused in front of that tree archway. Ahead of him was the same cool, quiet forest he had always known. But the twins had disappeared and as Ivar crawled through, something changed. How it had happened, how it was even _possible_ , he had no idea. The clearing he had entered was bathed in jumping orange firelight. Heat struck his cheeks and his senses were assaulted with the sudden, thundering noise of beating drums and laughter. Ivar turned his head back the way he had come. The archway was there, the near-silence of the forest behind it. It was as if there was an invisible barrier separating the two worlds. It was inexplicable, unearthly, like nothing Ivar had ever seen before. It shouldn't have existed. _But it does._ Ivar simply lay in the grass and soaked it in.

The clearing was encircled by a mass of tents and at its centre burned an enormous bonfire. People were gathered together around it; dancing to the beat of the drums, smoking pipes of scented herbs, drinking wine. It was such an intoxicating scene, one which spoke of family and community and contentment. Near the edge of the flames a group of young women were dancing, half naked with wildflowers twined into their hair. The way they moved had a wildness to it, a freedom, a kind of savageness. It was fierce and untamed and utterly, utterly beautiful.

The twins were walking in Ivar's direction. At first, he thought he had been discovered, but the Dagny boys strode straight past without noticing him. Varin lifted a hand in greeting and a collection of strangers shifted. They all had that crumbling white paint on their skin, rubbed across their mouths. _What is that?_ It was clear that they were friends with the twins, or at least had known each other a long time. Ivar watched as they embraced each other with a warmness that he had never experienced.

"Gudrik!" A girl with long pale braids came running from the edge of the bonfire and leapt into Gudrik's arms, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck. When they pulled apart he kissed both of her heavily-tattooed cheeks, laughing. _That must be the sister._ Ivar glared at the attractive blonde. _This was the leader of the Ullacs? The girl Brodir should be so afraid of?_ He felt disappointment pooling in his stomach. For a reason he couldn't fathom, Ivar had hoped for more. He was contemplating crawling away when the hulking, bald warrior grasping Varin's forearm spoke.

"She is waiting for you."

They moved towards a tent just a few feet from Ivar's hiding place and pulled back the entrance flap. Above the chattering lull near the bonfire came a voice. A voice like the rushing of the ocean tides, like honey and the husk of polished steel. Ivar stiffened all over. "Welcome my brothers."

"It is good to see you, sister."

"And you."

"Father sent us."

"I know." A figure appeared at the mouth of the tent. Ivar strained to get a good look but in the jumping shadows all he could make out was a sweep of dark hair. "Let us begin."


	3. Syzygy

**Hello everyone! Hope you are all enjoying the revamped story and like this new update. Big thank you to those who left such kind reviews!**

* * *

 **Chapter III**

 _ **Syzygy** – "An alignment of celestial bodies" _

_Origin: English, Latin_

* * *

"I'm hungry." Sigurd complained as the sons of Ragnar trudged through Kattegat towards their cottage.

"Well brother, if you had better aim, we would be eating elk and not rabbit." Ubbe slapped him over the head lightly. A string of dead rabbits was slung over his shoulder. Sigurd's aim with a bow may be a little faulty but the brothers could always rely on their snares. Rising food prices in Kattegat were affecting everyone, even the former princes, and it was far better to catch what you could in the forests than to buy scraps down at the docks. As they neared their residence, they saw groups of needy citizens lining up for aid rations. Many people in Kattegat were simply too old or infirm to hunt for themselves, and increasing numbers were forced to rely on charity to get through the week. Since guests of the Great Army had removed many of them from their homes, Lagertha was expected to provide care. Ivar's keen eyes did not miss the House Dagny mark seared into the side of the wooden food crates. _Lagertha is losing her grip._

Ivar pulled himself to a stop as the boys turned the corner. He watched, a little jealously, as his brothers bounded up a set of stairs, like new puppies, and rapped politely on the door. Knock too hard or too loud and Old Galena would surely have a heart attack. After a few moments the door cracked open and a pair of milky, squinting eyes stared out at them.

"Hello, Galena."

"Good afternoon."

Hvitserk juggled his basket of fish, trying to get a better grip, as they entered the tiny home. Old Galena had been their mother's favourite slave, she had essentially raised the boys, and when Aslaug was murdered Lagertha decided she had no use for her. Ubbe had bought Old Galena's freedom and installed her in a small villa near their own home. She was too frail to keep working and certainly too poor to feed herself with the current food-price inflation. "We have your delivery."

Old Galena let out a little chuckle, ushering them in. She had a hunched back and hobbled around with a walking stick, but that did not prevent her from trying to serve the boys as she used to. "Tea?"

"No, thank you."

Hvitserk filled a bowl with fresh fish and laid two rabbits down beside it. "The forest was good to us today, this should keep you fed for a while."

Old Galena wrung her bony hands together. Her current situation was so alien to her, so inappropriate, but regardless she was grateful. She scraped together a few copper coins from the purse hanging at her belt and offered it to them earnestly. Ubbe wrapped his grip around her outstretched hand and gently closed her fingers. "You do not need to do that, Galena." Her wrinkled mouth trembled, unsure of what to say, so she just nodded tentatively and scuttled away.

"Do not be afraid to come to us if you need anything." Hvitserk told her from the doorway. They all knew that Old Galena would not ask them for anything, whether she was too proud or too embarrassed they weren't sure, but their offer was sincere. The boys gave her one last wave and closed the door carefully.

"Do you think she will last another winter?" Sigurd asked as they trouped down the stairs heavily.

"Galena is a tough old bird. She may well outlive us all."

Ivar didn't say a word as he crawled after them. Since finding the Ullac camp late the night before, his mind had been utterly consumed by them, by that mysterious voice that reminded him of heavy rain. He had lain in the undergrowth watching them celebrate for hours. He had hoped to catch another glimpse of the mysterious leader but neither she nor her brothers emerged from the tent. Eventually, as the pinkish glow of early morning sunrise crested through the trees, Ivar had given up and dragged himself home through the forests. As he crawled away he had been struck again by that strange feeling of homesickness, as if he belonged with the Ullacs. Then as he passed through the tree archway, as suddenly as it had appeared, that imaginary rope tethered to his chest had been severed. By the time he had reached Kattegat, Ivar's entire body was aching intensely and all he longed for was a steaming bath. He had shaken off the feeling of _belonging_ more than a little bitterly and spent the morning lost in a foul mood.

As they reached the porch of their cottage, the sons of Ragnar halted in surprise. The door was open and the foreign, twisting scent of herbal smoke drifted from it.

"What the…"

Ivar recognised the smell immediately. It curled up into his nostrils, spread down his throat like a gulp of spiced wine, and wriggled out through his bloodstream. _Ullacs._ He crawled towards it instinctively. The other sons of Ragnar exchanged glances, unsheathed their blades and walked cautiously into their cottage.

It was empty.

Ubbe hooked his axe onto his belt and approached the supper table. At its centre was a stack of herbs twined together with a piece of string, smoking gently. The oldest son of Ragnar plucked it up and inhaled deeply. Something deep in the pit of his stomach fluttered.

"It smells like…"

Sigurd pulled it from his brothers' hand, turning it over and over in his fingers. He handled it carefully, as if it was a baby bird with a broken wing. His words were halting. "Roasting meat…and Ragnar…and music, if music had a smell."

"Home." Hvitserk half-whispered. "It smells like home."

Ivar wasn't listening to his brothers. He had already experienced that twisting, transforming scent. It seemed to smell differently to each person. Sigurd smelled their father, Ragnar Lothrbok. But when Ivar had smelled those herbs at the Ullac camp, he thought only of Aslaug, of the subtle flowery perfume she used to wear. The one made of mountain daises and wild lavender. In his mind, he had suddenly been a toddler again watching his mother grind together dried petals with a pestle and mortar. She glanced up at him, her beautiful hair swept over one shoulder and smiled. The smile that she reserved solely for him and no one else. She held up the bowl for little Ivar to smell and he had giggled, wrinkling up his nose. Perhaps that was why he had found himself unable to move, unable to leave the camp, he was bathing in the smell of his mother. It had wrapped him in a cloak of bitter-sweet longing and Ivar's heart felt consumed with the loss. Loss of the only woman he had ever loved.

But at that moment in the cottage, Ivar the Boneless couldn't think of anything. His eyes were staring up at the wall behind their table, staring at the large rune marked there in crumbling grey-white paint.

"Look."

Ubbe's eyes flicked up. "What is that?"

"I have never seen that rune before."

Ivar reached up a hand to trace the paint. Still slightly wet, it streaked his fingers the colour of old snow. A faint vibration ran through his fingertips as they connected with the rune and a strange, echoing voice trickled through his mind. _This is the mark of the Ullacs._ Of course, Ivar didn't say that aloud. He wouldn't say a word about the camp, or the girl with the voice like rich earth. Not yet. For the time being, he would keep that information just for himself. It felt like a dirty little secret and he didn't much like sharing his secrets. Especially not with his brothers.

Hvitserk strode over to the wall and swept his hand across the painted rune. A shower of drying paint crumbs came away with his touch. "Who would mark our home this crude way?"

Ivar knew. _It is an invitation._

Finally, as Ivar was deciding whether to divulge even a fraction of his knowledge, Ubbe spoke. "I believe this is an invitation." Ivar almost raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"That rune," He gestured at the wall. "I think it is the mark of the Ullacs. King Brodir's daughter has come to Kattegat, perhaps she wants to meet us."

"The Ullacs?"

"I think I have heard that name." Hvitserk responded. He rubbed his fingertips together releasing a flurry of crumbling paint particles. "The Swedish religious faction."

"Witches," Sigurd snarled. "I heard. People say they practice the Old Ways."

"What do _you_ know about the Old Ways?" Ivar hissed.

Sigurd's thin lips curled up about to retort when Ubbe cut in, rubbed his forehead wearily. "Enough. I have heard _enough_ of your constant arguing." The youngest brothers simply glared venomously at each other. "We should speak with Floki about this, perhaps he can uncover the truth."

* * *

While the sons of Ragnar pondered the meaning of a painted rune, Lagertha was once again seated in her throne. The room was cold and silent. For the first time in a long time, she was completely alone. Her fingernails rapped against the wood of her chair arm, as they had when King Brodir had come to present House Dagny, but this time the rhythm was uneven, anxious. She savoured each inhale of breath, forcing the nervousness down into the pit of her stomach. She was queen. _Queen_ , she told herself again and again. _Queens are not intimidated by children._

She gazed down at the carved wooden box resting in her lap. A finger traced the lid, drifted over the symbol marked there in greyish white paint. It had been waiting for her when she returned to the royal residence late that afternoon. Just sitting there on her bed patiently. Even before her eyes had settled on the rune, Lagertha had known that it was from them. They had been here in her home and not a soul had seen them, heard them, noticed them in any way.

Lagertha cradled the box. Why was she so afraid to look inside? _Queens are not intimidated by children, not by children, not by children._ She curled her grip around it, the pads of her fingertips vibrating softly as they connected with the dark wood. Slowly, ever so slowly, the queen of Kattegat lifted the lid and the concept of time seemed to evaporate around her. Inside the deep box were two items, both wrapped in thick crimson wool. _As red as spilled blood._ Carefully Lagertha opened the first package. She lifted a necklace from its shroud, heart thudding against her chest, and the silver symbol dangling from the cord swivelled slowly in the air. It was the Web of Wyrd. Lagertha swallowed thickly. She knew its meaning well. The Web of Wyrd or the matrix of fate, as it was sometimes called, had been woven by the Norns; goddesses who ruled the fates, determined the destiny and more importantly the lifespans of the Viking people. She laid it down on the ledge of her chair arm and began to unbind the second gift.

The box clattered to the floor of the throne room as Lagertha heaved in a desperate, anxiety-riddled breath. The noise of its fall echoed off the ceiling beams. The queen didn't even hear it, all she could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears. In her hands was something she had hoped never to receive. An hourglass. She turned it over and over in her hands, but the grains of sand refused to change direction. The top section was almost half full and every few seconds a tiny, almost indistinguishable shard of sand tumbled down into the pile at the bottom. Somehow Lagertha just _knew_ , knew that those grains of sands represented minutes of her life. When the last grain fell, she knew she would die _. By a son of Ragnar's blade._

"Unconventional gifts, I know."

Lagertha's head jerked up. She had been so consumed by the fear and adrenaline racing through her body that she had not noticed the appearance of another figure in the throne room. The only daughter of House Dagny was leaning nonchalantly against the wall several feet from the dais, arms crossed. Her lips turned up crookedly. Perhaps it was meant as a smile, but it seemed to Lagertha as something more sinister, like an animal baring its teeth. Lagertha found herself wondering how sharp the girl's teeth were, wondering if they were sharp enough to rip out her throat.

Lagertha had seen glimpses of this girl in her dreams more times than she could count, the Seer had whispered of her coming, but in the flesh, she looked quite different. The queen hadn't expected her to be quite so _young_ , nor so attractive. Perhaps she had expected someone more intimidating, larger, more muscular. But the girl moved in a way that wasn't quite human and there was a steady, inconceivable darkness to her that frightened Lagertha to her core. Lagertha suddenly had the feeling that the Gods were watching her, that this girl walked with the Gods one step behind. Her eyes were _their_ eyes. The queen's skin prickled all over.

"Hello, Queen Lagertha."

"Welcome." Lagertha found herself saying, but her voice sounded far away, as if she was speaking under water.

All Lagertha could focus on was the girl's eyes; those enormous, hypnotic, kohl-ringed eyes. If it was at all possible, her eyes were even bigger than the rest of her family. All Dagny eyes seemed to have an odd luminous tinge, but this girl's were different; clearer, more astute, with the glint of higher knowledge behind them. The ordinary, shadowy Dagny green was ringed with a circle of yellow.

The girl pushed away from the wall and slouched forward a few steps. As she came closer to the light of the roaring fire, Lagertha finally got a better look at her. She was angular like her brothers, all sharp edges and high cheekbones. _There is nothing soft about this one._ The girl didn't look like a princess that much was true; there was no gown, no extravagant jewellery. Her hair was the strangest thing. It was partially pulled up into the severe twisted braids customary in Sweden, but her temples were caked in the same flaking white paint that marked the lid of the gift box. It was smeared into the plaits of her hair and down her slender throat. In the jumping fire light, Lagertha realised that her loose, waist-length curls were not dark like the rest of House Dagny. They were blue. The colour of ink, of an oil slick, of the ocean's depths.

"King Brodir expressed that I may have offended you." She tilted her head, gazing up at the queen. "Is this true?"

"It is expected that visiting nobility present themselves to the queen when they arrive. It is a mark of _respect_. You did not do this."

"Ahhh," She nodded. Her tongue flickered out and wetted the corner of her lips like a snake. Lagertha fought the urge to flinch. It was repulsive. "I understand."

"But you are here now, so I will forgive it." Lagertha said with more resolve than she expected.

"Well," The only daughter of House Dagny revealed a slice of white teeth. The smile didn't reach her eyes however, they were as calm and cold as still water. _Predatory._ There was a rune tattooed beneath her right eye, something dark and curling that Lagertha couldn't quite identify. The tightly fitted tunic she wore was cut off at the elbows and more tattoos spread up her forearms like twisting smoke. Lagertha's eyes slipped over her body, landing on the axe hanging from her belt, the curved dagger strapped to her mid-thigh.

"Perhaps I should make myself clear, queen Lagertha." The queen's heartbeat seemed to slow. It rattled unevenly against her chest cavity. "The Ullacs have not come to Kattegat to honour Ragnar Lothbrok, nor to take orders from you. We are here only because the Gods willed it."

"While you are in my kingdom, you will respect my authority." Lagertha hissed. Internally she cursed herself for her lack of composure, but anger was surging through her body, swelling in her bloodstream like molten metal. Her fists curled into tight balls, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her palm. The queen wouldn't notice until much later that there were four crescent-shaped cuts where her nails had pieced the skin.

The girl held up her hands in insincere appeasement, the shadow of a smile still playing at the corner of her mouth. "We are not here to ruffle any feathers. The Ullacs have pledged our support to your cause and we will fight by your side, but we have our own reasons for doing so and I believe it is best that you understand that from the beginning."

"I do not appreciate your tone."

She actually chuckled; a throaty kind of laugh which was loaded with derision. "Appreciate it or don't, Queen Lagertha, it makes no difference. You know who I am. I am Eydis, the only daughter of House Dagny and High Priestess of the Ullacs. Your authority here means nothing to me." The girl bent down lithely, scooped up the fallen box, closed its lid and placed it down gently on the table beside Lagertha's throne. "Thank you for your hospitality."

Then with one last strange, tilting smile, the High Priestess swept from the throne room. Lagertha watched her go with a mixture of fury and fear. In her mind she repeated the words over and over again.

 _Queens are not intimidated by children._

* * *

"I am so happy to have all my children beneath one roof once more." The king leaned back in his seat, rubbing his beard. A young female slave bent over to refill his wine cup and Brodir did not try to disguise the way he stared at her cleavage. "House Dagny is complete once more, the stars have aligned and we may begin to make plans of the future of our clan."

The rest of the table remained silent. For the first time in many months all five Dagny children were gathered around one table and the tension was palpable. The only noise was the sipping of wine and the chewing of meat and bread. Sibbe was the most on edge; she had barely touched her food, simply pushed it around the plate with her fork. Since meeting the son of Ragnar, her mind had been consumed with his easy smile, the warmth of his brown eyes, the charming lull of his voice. When Brodir had brutally ravaged her that night, Sibbe had closed her eyes and imagined Hvitserk's face. When she had awoken with finger-shaped bruises on her thighs and misery on her lips, Sibbe had felt great shame. She had worked hard to be a dutiful wife but Brodir was cruel and unfair, so she decided she shouldn't feel guilty for finding some pleasure during their sex. Sibbe refused to call in love-making. She nudged a piece of meat with her fork, the veal bled where the prongs of her fork pierced it, and Sibbe sighed silently. Perhaps she should have been born a deer. Deers run free in the forests. If they are targeted with an arrow at least their death is swift, no torture. Being the queen to an unworthy king is an unending pain.

"I am most pleased to see the Ullac forces join us."

Brodir sipped from his cup and then set it down, faux-thoughtfully. His daughter did not react; she had not touched her plate, simply reclined in her seat, sipping her wine. She had, at least, cleaned herself up (not to Brodir's standards of course, as her temples were stained with crumbling white paint). Her long blue hair was coiled up into a crown of braids and a thin silver chain looped across her forehead, a small amber jewel dangling from it. She wore a deep crimson tunic, dark brown trousers and knee-high leather boots. A heavily engraved silver belt cinched in her small waist and a curved dagger hung from it. Brodir's eyes strayed to it every now and then, pushing the memory of its original owner from his mind. _That was were this had all begun. All this madness._

"Of course, you arrived far later than I expected."

Finally, she spoke. "The wind was unfavourable."

"And here I believed the Ullacs were always favoured."

The twins exchanged inconspicuous glances. Their father's tone may have been light, but there was always an undertone to his words that inspired the feeling of impending danger. Varin's eyes darted to his younger sister but her face was composed. Eydis was much more accomplished at playing games than the boys were, it was almost impossible to know what she was thinking at any given time. If any of the Dagny children were going to let slip their plans, it would not be her. Perhaps that was why Gudrik's heartrate increased. He clenched his jaw shut and resolved to remain silent. If he didn't open his mouth, no secrets could slip out.

"We are happy to see you, sister." Hallad nodded, lifting his cup slightly in her direction. "It has been a long time."

"It has," Brodir continued. It was clear that he was only interested in hearing his own voice. "Of course, House Dagny should have been reunited for the festival of _Lithasblot_ , just two moons past. I ordered my daughter back to Krossavik for the celebration, yet neither she nor her Ullac friends heeded my words. Perhaps I should not be surprised, Eydis has a nasty habit of disobeying direct orders from her king."

Sibbe looked at her step-daughter. _Please do not make him angry,_ she begged silently. _I will be the one to suffer for it._ Eydis just sipped her wine casually. Her face was still and unemotional but there was a twinkling in her eyes that indicated amusement. Calder smirked as he sliced apart his meat; the direction in which the conversation was moving made him very happy indeed. His sister was in desperate need of discipline, and Calder hoped his father would deliver that discipline harshly.

"Do you have anything to say, daughter?"

"No." Eydis replied. Her voice echoed around the dining room like the sound of heavy rain.

"That disappoints me greatly." King Brodir kept his eyes firmly on his daughter, swilling the liquid in his cup methodically. "I hope you have paid Queen Lagertha a visit."

"I have."

"And you offered her the appropriate respect?"

"Yes." Eydis did not mention the gifts that she had bestowed upon the Queen of Kattegat, that was a secret she would keep only for herself. Brodir would not approve, but the Gods were clear. She had been instructed to send a message. The hourglass would certainly do that. From what Eydis had heard, Lagertha was an impressive woman and one which regarded religious piety with great respect. What she had done to offend the Gods was unclear but the only daughter of House Dagny had stopped asking questions long ago.

"Perhaps we should talk about something else, father." Calder suggested, sly as a snake. "I for one am very excited about Eydis' upcoming marriage. Are you looking forward to meeting your future husband, sister?"

"Very much." The girl smiled, and her enormous, yellow-rimmed eyes glittered in a way which made Calder nervous. As always, she seemed to know something that he did not. His fingers curled tighter around his knife in frustration. He had hoped to elicit a rise from her.

"Really?" Calder continued, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. "That surprises me."

"Do you not trust our father's judgement?"

"Of course I do." He snarled.

"Then surprise would be a foolish reaction, would it not brother?"

Calder could feel his father's eyes burning into his skin. He had fallen into her trap more easily than he cared to admit. Anger and bitterness swelled in his stomach. If his wife Ingrid had been there, she would have rolled her eyes.

"I am pleased, daughter. I expected some degree of disagreement on this matter." King Brodir placed his empty wine cup down on the table top and surveyed his youngest child with a mixture of emotions. "I am considering several men but am leaning towards King Harald or his brother Halfdan the Black. Either would be a strong alliance for House Dagny."

"I am sure they would."

Eydis lifted her wine cup to her lips to hide the amused smirk forming there. Let Brodir make his plans. Eydis would not be married to either Harald or Halfdan, the Gods had shown her the path of her life and she would follow it without question. There was only one man for her. For now, at least, she would play the obedient daughter and allow Brodir to assert his control. In the end it wouldn't matter.

 _Your days as King are numbered, Brodir._


	4. Trouvaille

**Big thank you to everyone who has been reading/ favouriting/ reviewing the story so far. Hope you are all enjoying it!**

* * *

 **Chapter IV**

 _ **Trouvaille**_ _– "A chance encounter with something wonderful, a magical moment"_

 _Origin: French_

* * *

"What is going on?"

"Vidar has challenged Ranvieg again." Siv replied as the man slouched down beside her on the mossy ground. It was stone cold and still damp in the early, blue morning. The girl snatched a glance at him as she raised a steaming cup of herbal tea to her mouth, the edges of her lips crinkling in amusement.

"Again?"

"Again."

Despite the creases of dawn only just easing from the sky, the Ullacs were awake and gathering to break their fast. Meals were always a communal affair and held great importance, crucial in supporting the familial hierarchy of the clan. The preparation and eating of good food was a pillar of their community. It was, after all, one of life's simplest pleasures, one which was gratefully gathered from the earth's bounty, from the generosity of the Gods. The forest clearing was alive with gentle chatter and the scent of warming porridge. At the edge of the encampment several Ullac men were chopping fresh fire wood, each slice of the axe sending sleepy birds scattering from their nests. The bonfire at the centre of their camp must always be kept alight and burning, even deep into the night. A group of younger members came slouching through the treeline carrying buckets of fresh water from the lake. As was custom, the first bucket was brought to wherever the High Priestess was seated. This particular morning, Eydis and a group of clansmen were gathered around a firepit watching a game of hnefatafl.

Eydis glanced up at Little Oleg as he laid down the water pail. She was sitting cross-legged atop a large boulder, one hand buried into the shaggy fur of one of the Ullac pack dogs. This particular hound was as black as night and, despite his gigantic size, was very sweet. He had always been Eydis' favourite and, due to his protective nature, was never far from her side. Although the dog, Neem, knew Little Oleg he let out a low, rumbling growl. A long bouncing, string of slobber dangled from his panting mouth. Little Oleg hovered a foot away (still not entirely sure of Eydis' pet), tucking his thumbs into the crook of his belt, chuckling.

"Again?"

"Again." Came a chorus of amused voices.

The boy came a little closer, peering over the board and Eydis found herself smiling as Little Oleg's shadow stretched out over the mossy ground. Little Oleg was _far_ from little. He was one of the Ullac's newest recruits and despite being only sixteen or seventeen, he was as tall and broad as a giant. Eydis seemed like a fragile, blue haired bird beside his enormous frame.

Vidar pointed a finger at Little Oleg. "You watch, brother. This time I have her."

Little Oleg's eyes flickered to Siv who shook her head, blue eyes sparkling playfully. "He doesn't."

"Shhhh," He waved them away impatiently, studying the board with a sort of manic concentration. "I am thinking."

Eydis poured a thin stream of pale green tea into a wooden cup and offered it to Little Oleg. "Sit with us, brother."

He did so, folding up his long limbs so that he could better fit on the rock beside the High Priestess. It was a known fact within the clan that Little Oleg was enamoured with Eydis. He was new and young and unable to separate the feeling of being understood, from love. Not that anyone was surprised, it was a feeling that almost every Ullac had experienced at one point or another. Like Little Oleg, most Ullacs had been outcasts in their former lives. They were often isolated by the intensity of their religious feelings and their (often correct) premonitions were looked on with suspicion. There was something within them that was disconnected, alone and misunderstood. Then one day, as if a key had been turned and a piece of them that had long lay dormant unlocked, everything would change. They would suddenly become aware of a force calling to them, a voice whispering over their skin like rain. A family was waiting for them. Either they would make the journey across the mountains of their own accord, using the thudding of far-away drums like a compass, or they would be retrieved from their villages by an Ullac elder. They would climb the mountain, take The Trial and, _if_ they were worthy, receive their brand at the hand of the High Priestess. Each and every Ullac remembered the moment that they looked up into Eydis' alien eyes and finally felt as if they were part of something bigger. They were finally part of a community, part of a family which understood them.

It was late into night when Siv and Faolan had come for Little Oleg. They told him that their High Priestess had heard his soul calling to her and that there was a place where the Gods were worshipped in the Old Ways, the True Ways. So, without question and without looking back, the boy disappeared into the night. Little Oleg's most vivid memory was the moment he ascended those steps to the ancient mountain stronghold of the Ullacs. Eydis had taken his face in her hands; enormous yellow-ringed eyes boring into him curiously, inky braids glinting in the watery sunlight like polished metal.

"You are home now, Oleg." She had told him, in that voice like honey and the rushing of the ocean's tides, and the poor boy had fallen in love with her as easily as he drew in breath.

Little Oleg was pulled from his thoughts at the sound of Ranvieg's voice. He had been watching Eydis' glittering, cat-like gaze on the game board. Ranvieg was a skilled contender, without doubt one of the best, but Eydis had taught her how to really play. The High Priestess rarely played hnefatafl herself, she preferred to observe and besides, she was yet to find an opponent worth taking the time to defeat.

"Either is a poor choice."

"Don't try to distract me Rany, I have a plan."

"I can see your plan. It is a poor choice."

Vidar looked at the High Priestess for confirmation but her amused smile didn't change, she simply sipped her tea quietly. The man cracked his knuckles, darted a piece across the board and then sat back on his haunches with a confused look of both victory and defeat.

Ranvieg tilted her head as she surveyed the board, rolling her tea cup between her hands absently. She was perhaps fifteen years older than Eydis, but her features held an elegance that made her appear far younger. She was an attractive woman; tall and willowy with skin the colour of fresh milk and large scarlet lips. Her dark hair had been pulled up into a coiled knot, displaying the tattoos spilling down her throat and the long bird feathers dangling from her earlobes. Eydis had always imagined that her mother Ginevra might have looked like Ranvieg. Dark and full of grace, all high cheekbones and arched eyebrows.

"You know, brother, you are getting better I will give you that much." She remembered vividly the words Eydis had uttered after their first game. "But you are trying to think two moves ahead, and it is not enough. If your strategy is set in stone, it is stagnant. You are unable to anticipate any unexpected consequence. Tactics of war must be multi-layered, intertwined, always evolving." She reached over and moved a figurine on the game board. "Each choice you make is a step on the road to your final aim. That road may twist and turn," Ranvieg knocked over Vidar's king with a flick of finger. It fell with a dull thud and rolled across the board. "But the result will always be the same."

Vidar groaned, slumping backwards onto the grass and balling his hands into frustrated fists. The gathered spectators laughed at him good-naturedly.

"Give it up Vidas, defeat to our sister is inevitable." Faolan grinned as he stirred the cauldron of porridge that was warming above the fire.

"In the game or in life?"

"Both."

"One day," Vidar declared, pointing up at the sky. "One day, the Gods will allow me a victory."

"Even they couldn't help you, brother." Siv teased him.

"Enough." Eydis swatted her with the porridge ladle faux-seriously. "We have other matters to discuss. Brother would you fetch Hauk?"

Little Oleg nodded, easing himself off the rock and slouching away. Both he and Vidar knew that they would not be privy to whatever conversation came next. The Ullac faction was built on the pillars of equality, but there were certain exceptions. Meetings between the Council, the Original Five, were always private. After a few moments Hauk arrived and the other men disappeared with a lazy farewell wave. Ullac members may be curious about what was discussed by the Council, but they accepted their separation from it without resentment. After all, they trusted Eydis to lead them. Why else would they have abandoned their old lives and crossed the mountains to find her? If she requested privacy, then out of respect, it was always given freely.

Siv spooned out portions of porridge and the Council accepted them gratefully, curling chilly fingers around the warmth of the bowls. Eydis sprinkled a pinch of nutmeg over hers before plunging in her spoon. Neem snuffled noisily at the bowl until Eydis snatched up a handful and offered it to her favourite dog with an open palm. She didn't mind sharing her breakfast. Ullacs shared everything.

"The plans have moved forward."

"Good."

"We believe that the sons of Ragnar will visit the camp tonight." Faolan told her, as if Eydis was not already aware of that fact. She simply stirred her porridge methodically, nodding.

"It would be an ideal time." She confirmed. "We will take advantage of the full moon and hold the Joining Ceremony."

"It is long overdue." Siv's gaze moved to Little Oleg across the clearing. He was reclined in the grass, stray globs of porridge on his cheeks, laughing contentedly at his friend's joke. He looked so young then, chuckling away in the milky morning light. He and several others had become Ullac only a few short weeks ago and the tribe had been too preoccupied with preparations for the raid to complete the final step in their initiation. "They completed The Trial several weeks ago."

"And a perfect time to present the Ullac community to possible allies." Hauk's deep voice rumbled knowingly. It was the first time he had spoken during the Council meeting and the others were unsurprised. He was generally a man of few words; brooding and bearded, more bear than man.

"Exactly." Eydis' white teeth glinted in the early morning light as she smiled, smooth and sharp as an animal's. "Then we are in agreement. The newest recruits will receive their brands tonight."

"Agreed." Came the Council's reply.

* * *

"How are even supposed to find them?"

The sons of Ragnar were drinking ale by the harbour. The sun was just on the verge of setting and the fjord was bathed in half-dying daylight. The brothers had decided to forgo the long walk back to their cottage, instead choosing to purchase alcohol from the dock-sellers and recline on the rocks by the edge of the water. It was a good space to discuss their business, the lapping of the waves disguised their quiet chattering and besides, the harbour itself was quiet. Stray warriors trekked back and forward from their boats carrying supplies and a couple of lonesome fishermen remained waist-deep in the water, but otherwise the dock was almost deserted.

They had ventured up to Floki's woodland hideout that afternoon and had left with far more questions than they had when they arrived. The boat-builder was notoriously abstract, full of riddles, but the revered way in which he spoke about the Ullacs had peaked their interest. Floki had danced around his nearly-built boat, grinning and twitching like a lunatic.

"What do you know about them? Should we take it as some kind of sign?"

"Well of _course_ you should, Hvitserk. Do you think that the Ullacs mark just any home?" He shoved a nail between his teeth and ducked under a shallow beam, his attention once again directed at the boat.

"Tell us what you know Floki." Ubbe snapped. He had become tired of the boat-builder's vagueness. He had little patience for riddles. "Why does it seem that everyone has heard the Ullac name except _us_?"

"Well," He murmured. "Ubbe, perhaps you have forgotten that with youth comes ignorance."

" _Floki_ ," The eldest son of Ragnar warned. "I will hear no more of this nonsense. The Ullacs came from _nowhere_ , why should we show them any respect?"

Floki smashed a nail into the woodwork before turning, hooking the hammer over his shoulder and grinning. His dark eyes twinkled impishly. He slouched down onto a ledge and surveyed the sons of Ragnar. "The Ullac name is ancient and honourable. For generations they were the religious faction of Sweden, people said that they obeyed the True Ways, that they could perform miracles."

"Then why have we never heard of them?"

"They disappeared, died out."

"How?"

"It was so long ago no one can say for sure. The Ullacs passed out of living memory, even their sagas faded, but people said that House Dagny pushed them out. They were afraid of the Ullac's power."

Hvitserk and Ubbe exchanged frustrated glances, but Ivar was entranced. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on a boulder. He wanted to gorge himself on information, absolve himself in it, drown himself in it. Each time the Ullac name was mentioned his mind retreated to the girl with a voice like rich earth and polished metal. The girl he hungered for so inexplicably.

"Floki," Ivar ventured. "Why have they resurfaced _now_?"

"Why do you think? Something has changed, I don't know, I haven't seen…but _something_ is different."

"What kind of something?"

"A new leader." Floki picked at a tough piece of skin at the edge of his fingernail, peeling it back slowly. "The Ullacs vanished for decades, until Brodir's daughter _._ I would like to know why."

Hvitserk tried to find a comfortable position to lean on the jagged rocks of the harbour but it seemed impossible. Eventually he gave up and simply rested his ale cup atop them instead. The water was reflecting that strange opulent blue-orange of early sunset. It rippled onto the beach where they sat rhythmically. Ivar reached out a hand and traced his fingers across its surface as gently as you would touch a butterfly's wing.

"I was speaking with Alegra-"

"When was that, brother?" Sigurd cut in, grinning slyly.

"Shut up." Hvitserk shoved his brother roughly.

He may not have confirmed Sigurd's insinuation out right, but the brothers all knew of his nightly visits to Lagertha's residence. There was a particular slave there, a raven-haired, copper-skinned beauty, that Hvitserk was partial to. She had been given as a gift by one of Lagertha's noblemen, captured somewhere in the Mediterranean, and spoke little of their common tongue. Nevertheless, she seemed to understand the prospect of _want_ and _wanting_ , because she had welcomed Hvitserk to her bed with open arms and open legs. He had visited her the night before, but as he tangled himself in her warm, wild embrace, Hvitserk had imagined the face of another. Alegra's strong, curving body was replaced in his mind with one much more delicate, paler, silver-haired. One called Sibbe. "Word is that Brodir's daughter visited Lagertha, gave her gifts."

"So what?"

"The slaves say she has not slept, that she is distressed, rattled. She lay in bed all day. Alegra said that she heard Lagertha and Astrid arguing about it."

"What kind of gift could elicit such a response?"

"An hourglass."

A dark, worrisome look was exchanged between the brothers. It was not a gift that any of them wished to receive in their lives.

"Brodir's daughter gifted her an hourglass?"

"So they say."

"That is a bold move." Ubbe rubbed his beard thoughtfully. He swirled the ale in his cup as if it were a magic pool, as if it would reveal to him to answers of life. "I think," He murmured. "That we should meet this witch. She has revealed herself an enemy of Lagertha, she could be our ally."

"She is not Lagertha's enemy." Ivar told them. "An hourglass is not given out of spite, it is given by order of the Gods."

"How do you know so much about her intentions, boneless?" Sigurd hissed.

"Floki taught _me_ the traditions, not you."

"What do you think, Hvitserk?" Ubbe cut in. Frankly he was tired of his younger brothers constantly arguing. He thought them to be immature. At least Hvitserk had travelled with him to Paris, was closer to him in age.

Hvitserk deliberated for a moment. "I think meeting her could be worthwhile." He downed the last of his ale and reached for the jug to refill it. "Even if she were not Ullac, it would not be a bad idea to meetBrodir's daughter."

"There are rumours that the King is looking for perspective marriages, not only for his daughter but for three of his sons as well."

"Why should we care who his sons marry?" Sigurd rolled his eyes, ever short sighted.

"Because if one of them marries Lagertha then our claim to Kattegat will be demolished, you fool." Ivar spat.

Sigurd's mouth opened to retort but Ubbe interrupted before he could. "Ivar is right. The only possible alliance is through his daughter. There is a reason they call her the _only_ daughter of House Dagny. In line for Brodir's throne are his sons, a crowd of male cousins and her."

"So if one of us were to marry her, House Dagny would be our ally." Hvitserk nodded, swirling his ale. He wondered idly if Brodir's daughter looked anything like her step mother, Sibbe. From the look of her brothers, all dark hair and sharp angles, he doubted it.

"It doesn't matter," Sigurd shrugged. His beady eyes squinting because of the alcohol. "The daughter is inconsequential. When Brodir dies surely his oldest son will succeed him. What's his name? Calder?"

"It doesn't work like that," Ivar told him with a tone of acidic superiority.

"He is right. Sweden do things differently under the Dagny regime, they always have."

Ubbe leaned backwards onto a rock and crossed his arms behind his head, letting his eyes slid shut. "The next leader will be chosen from the living generation of relatives, providing they are of age. It is a week-long ceremony, decided upon by Dagny family members, noblemen and religious elders."

"So…hypothetically, Brodir's daughter could take the crown?"

"Yes."

"So, _hypothetically_ ," Sigurd continued. "Her _husband_ could also take the crown?"

"Yes."

"Then plenty of people will be seeking her hand in marriage."

"That may be true."

"We don't know if anyone else received an Ullac invitation. If she wants to meet us, we should _go_." Ivar insisted.

"I think Ivar is correct. We do not know what the marking entails, but we should not squander an opportunity to make influential allies." Ubbe told them.

"Perhaps we should ask her brothers?"

Ubbe opened one eye and glanced at Hvitserk, and the younger brother simply gestured lazily across the beach. Sure enough the twins were slouching over the pebbled, sandy ground towards the water. As they almost always were, Varin and Gudrik were laughing between themselves. Varin hopped up onto the edge of the pier, legs dangling just above the surface, and began skinning an apple with a sharp knife. The sons of Ragnar could hear the echoing of Gudrik's chuckle as he skimmed rocks across the fjord, conversing animatedly with his brother.

"I don't like them." Sigurd muttered mostly to himself. Not that it mattered. His eyes narrowed as Gudrik exclaimed something and Varin threw his head back in laughter, slapping the wooden slats of the pier with one hand.

"Who cares?" Ubbe rolled his eyes and sat up fully. "Varin!" The boy's head turned and Ubbe lifted an arm to wave them over.

The twins spoke between themselves briefly, apparently deciding whether or not to award the sons of Ragnar any of their attention. Clearly they voted in favour because after a moment, they came slouching across the beach. They came to a stop a foot or so away, tucking their thumbs into their belt loops casually, grinning their signature wolfish smiles.

"Ubbe," Varin tilted his head in the other boy's direction. "Hello, boys."

"Come, drink with us." Ubbe offered Gudrik a cup of ale which he accepted.

"Thank you." Varin slumped down onto the sandy ground with the grace of a clumsy puppy and gulped down a swig watery beer. His brother glanced over the brothers coolly, though there was a hint of mischief in his eye that suggested the twins knew why they had been summoned.

"So, what can do for the sons of Ragnar hmm?"

"Nothing in particular."

"No?" Gudrik grinned crookedly. The twins exchanged a knowing look, one which Sigurd interrupted only as smugness. "We thought you might want to ask us something."

"Why would you think that?"

"We heard about your cottage."

As was their custom, the twins seemed to finish each other's' thoughts.

"Thought you might be curious, is all."

"Maybe we are." Hvitserk allowed.

They shrugged in unison, clearly waiting for more information before speaking again.

"What can you tell us?" Ubbe asked, refilling their cups from the ale jug.

"Well," Varin's eyes glinted at them. The sun was finally beginning to set, and the fjord was bathed in blueish-pinkish light. Soon it would become orange, then ink. The twins' cat-like eyes would catch every ray of the ever-changing colours. The full moon would rise, and Kattegat would become alive with the sound of drunken chatter and the scent of roasting meat. "It depends on what you want to know."

"Anything."

Gudrik glanced at his (fractionally older) brother and then shrugged again. "She wants to meet you."

"Your sister?"

"Eydis, yes."

 _Eydis_. The name soaked into Ivar's skin, soothed itself over his tongue and spread out into his veins like a gulp of mulled wine. _Eydis_. It seemed a fitting name for the girl he had glimpsed, the one with a voice like the rushing of the ocean's tides. _Eydis._

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Why _us_?"

"You are the princes of Kattegat, are you not?"

"We were."

"You _are_." Gudrik confirmed. "That is why the Great Army is here. They are here to follow you."

"They are here to avenge Ragnar."

"So some of them say, but they are lying."

"My brother speaks the truth," Varin smiled unevenly. "They aren't here to avenge Ragnar, they are here to see which one of you will be the next king of Kattegat."

"Lagertha is queen of Kattegat."

"For now."

"Is this your father's opinion?" Sigurd hissed.

"Maybe. We haven't asked him."

"Your sister's then?" Hvitserk questioned.

"Not necessarily."

"Are all Dagnys so evasive?"

The twins cracked genuinely amused smiles. They replied at the same time. "Yes."

"What is she like?" Ivar asked, as nonchalantly as he dared.

Varin pulled himself off the ground, brushing damp sand from his trousers and setting down his ale cup. "Perhaps you should meet her and find out."

"There is an Ullac celebration tonight. If you really are curious, come." Gudrik handed Ubbe his cup. "Thanks for the drink."

The boys turned to go when Hvitserk called after them. "How do we find them?"

"Follow the drums." Came the reply.

* * *

"Follow the drums, he said." Sigurd rolled his eyes bitterly as the sons of Ragnar trampled through the forests. "Follow the drums. Directions might have been useful, but _no_. Follow the fucking drums. What is that even supposed to mean?"

Hvitserk paused and glanced back at his younger brother. "You can't hear them?"

"Hear _what_?"

"The drums, Sigurd." Ubbe confirmed. "They're quiet, but they're there."

Sigurd stopped where he stood and looked around the forest. His eyes narrowed in concentration, but after a moment or two he shook his head a little defeatedly. "I don't hear anything."

"It is coming from over there." Ivar muttered, nodding his head off to the right. Granted, Ivar already knew where the tree archway was, but he wasn't going to divulge that information just yet. Better for his brothers to remain in the dark. "Come on."

For how long they walked, the brothers were not sure. The eerie depths of the forest seemed to ebb and flow like the tides of the sea; languid, liquid, full of secrets. The full moon had risen, and the trees were bathed in silvery light. It looked the largest it ever had, as if the moon itself was gorging on the prospect of excitement to come. With each step the _thud thud_ _thudding_ of far-away drums became louder. It drew them forward like a compass. Finally, they came to a halt in front of the archway formed from entwined, twisting branches.

"I think this is it." Hvitserk murmured. His words echoed across the woods, almost reverently.

"But, how?"

Ivar crawled towards it without a word, he knew those who crossed the arch's threshold would simply melt into it and emerge in another world. _Let us through_. An owl watched carefully from one of the branches, it's dark, wet eyes glinting. As Ivar pulled himself forward the last few feet, the owl hooted softly like a welcome. Although you could not touch or sense the invisible barrier which separated the Ullac encampment from the rest of the forest, Ivar's skin tingled as he passed through it. In a strange way, it was refreshing. Like a cold cup of water on a summer's afternoon. When the youngest son of Ragnar opened his eyes, he had been transported once more. The heat of the Ullacs' central bonfire lashed his cheeks and relief spread throughout his bloodstream. For a reason he could not explain, paranoid thoughts had perched themselves in the deepest recesses of Ivar's mind, like vultures. He had worried that the Ullac boundary would somehow keep him out, as if the invitation had been meant only for his brothers and not for himself. He needn't have worried of course. Ivar could not have known that as he passed through that archway, his life would be forever changed. From that moment on, the life of Ivar the Boneless would be forever intertwined with the Ullacs.

"By the Gods." Ivar's head turned at the sound of Ubbe's hushed voice.

"How does this place exist?"

"I have no idea."

The celebration was not yet in full swing and yet the clearing was full of half-naked Ullacs. The rhythmic thumping of the drums and the shaking of bells filled the air. Ubbe's eyes strayed to a collection of young women. They were barely clothed and their long, wild curls were twisted with braids, twined with feathers and flowers. Everyone seemed to be laughing. The brothers soaked it all in; the noise, the smell of wine, the crackling of the bonfire. It was as intoxicating for them as it had been for Ivar.

"You found us then," Varin's voice carried across the clearing. He approached and grasped Ubbe's forearm with his large hand. "Welcome." The Dagny boy was shirtless, and the jumping firelight reflected off his pale skin. Ivar felt a familiar stab of jealousy. Varin's muscular torso looked as if it had been carved from alabaster marble.

"This is incredible."

The twin glanced around briefly. "Yes well, the Ullacs' like to play hide and seek."

"Evidently they are skilled at it."

Varin chuckled. "Ahh," He gestured lazily in the direction they had come, towards the archway of branches. On the other side was the silver-crusted silence of the undisturbed forest. "Nothing more than a common swindler's trick."

"How did they do it?"

A set of ivory shoulders rocked up and down in a noncommittal shrug. It was clear Varin had no intention of giving them an answer. "Come."

The brothers followed him towards the edge of the bonfire where Gudrik was slouched with a tattooed blonde in his lap. The couple raised a cup in the direction of the newcomers but did not speak. Ivar's attention turned to another woman. She was tall and slender, like Aslaug had been, and her angular face had a great elegance to it. The sons of Ragnar glanced her up and down, quickly deciding that there was something important about this particular Ullac.

"Welcome." She spread her hands gracefully. In the light of the bonfire, they were as white as bone. _Are all Ullacs so pale?_ Ivar found himself wondering. "Please follow me."

"Why?" Hvitserk asked curiously.

"The High Priestess wishes to see you."


	5. Numinous

**Thank you so much for all the reviews, I hope you are enjoying the new chapters. This is only the first part of the Ullac celebration, there is much more on the way.**

 **\- E**

* * *

 **Chapter V**

 _ **Numinous**_ _– "A powerful feeling of both fear and fascination, of being in awe and overwhelmed by what is before you."_

 _Origin: Latin_

* * *

"You stand in the presence of Princess Eydis of Sweden, the Sacred Flame, High Priestess of the Ullacs and the Only Daughter of House Dagny."

"There is no need for such titles." Came a husky voice from the semi-darkness of the spacious tent. Ivar's heart was beating so intensely that he could hear the rush of blood pounding in his ears. For some reason his palms were slick with clammy sweat. This moment was one which had consumed his thoughts for so many hours he had lost count. He would finally glimpse the face which accompanied that languid, liquid voice so reminiscent of the open ocean. The voice which seemed to whisper to him in his dreams. "Please come in, sit."

Ranvieg slid the tent flaps closed silently behind the sons of Ragnar. The young men moved slowly across the open space and eased themselves down onto the piles of cushions and fur pelts. Flickering candles burned from within stained glass lanterns, throwing the room into a melting kaleidoscope of colours. The everchanging hues reflected in a pair of enormous cat-like eyes, as wet as tar. Ivar steadied his nerves, preparing to look at her for the first time. He had been distracting himself with the decoration of her tent; the sheer fluttering sheet which separated her cot bed from the rest of the room, the glass jars of herbs, the rune stones. When the youngest brother finally raised his eyes, he was caught immediately in a gaze which stole his breath. The half-obscured figure was reclined comfortably, one hand buried in the fur of an enormous shaggy dog, the other cradling a carved whale-bone cup. Her face was shrouded in the shifting light, but her eyes blazed into him. Two green pools ringed with yellow. _Animal eyes._

"Please help yourself to a drink," A pale index finger indicated the jug and cups laid near their feet. "We have no servants here."

"A princess without servants," Ubbe tried cautiously. His tone more curious than he perhaps intended it to be. "How unusual."

The candle light bounced suddenly from an amused set of flashing teeth. Ivar's stare dragged slowly to the ambiguous shape of her mouth, the sharp lines of her teeth. _Sharp like a fox's_. "We have no need for such things. The Gods blessed us with hands of our own."

"Thank you for the invitation, Princess." Hvitserk inclined his cup in her direction politely.

The brothers felt uneasy. The way those predatory eyes were staring at them out of the shadows made the backs of their necks itch. Eydis' tent was hazy with the scent of burning herbs. Ivar breathed it in deeply. The slight flame-like sensation it created in his lungs made him tingle with anticipation. It was almost as if he could feel Aslaug's ghostly fingers stroking the flesh of his cheek.

"Call me Eydis." Came the voice. Ivar yearned desperately to see the face attached to it, but in the refracting dimness he could make out only the eyes and the glinting of sharp, pale teeth. "We are pleased to receive you. Some showed concern that you may not find us."

"The directions we were given were…vague, it's true." Ubbe admitted haltingly. He took a gulp from his cup, wincing at the unexpectedly strange taste. It had a heavy, musky scent to it. Herbal, unusual. The liquid smoothed itself down his throat and into his stomach like honey. His thoughts seemed to trip over themselves, lucid and twisting like escaping smoke. Ubbe ran his tongue over his lower lip, savouring the flavour, and then drank the remainder of his cup.

"Yes well, my brothers have a penchant for theatrics." Another smile. "But you are here now, nonetheless."

The way her eyes slid over Ivar's face made him itch, as if thousands of ants were creeping over his skin. They glittered intently. _She knows. She knows I was here._ He hoped that the girl would not reveal his nightly visit to the Ullac camp, nor that he had known all along about the archway of branches. Ivar's fingers twitched absently, and he fidgeted with his wrist brace to hide the involuntary movement. The yellow-rimmed eyes blinked slowly. They missed nothing.

"How did you do that?" Hvitserk wondered. "The boundary I mean?"

"Just an old trick."

It was essentially the same answer that Varin had given, but Hvitserk pressed on. His mind was alive with curiosity and the words spilled out before he could stop them. "What kind of trick?"

"When you entered the clearing, did you notice how loud it was Hvitserk?"

"Yes."

"Do you hear that now?"

There was a pause and Hvitserk cocked his head, listening. "No."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I am not sure."

"How is it possible?" Ubbe mirrored his younger brother, straining to hear the raucous laughter or the crackling of the bonfire but he heard nothing. The glare of the flames could be seen through the canvas walls of the tent. The fabric was thin, so why could no sound be heard?

"Nature's bounty offers solutions to many problems, even to ones you did not know you had. If your eyes remain open, you will find the answer."

"So, you aren't going to tell us?" Sigurd confirmed a little bitterly. His lips were turned up in pouting distaste. "You are as cryptic as your brothers."

"If we simply gave you the answer, you would never look for it yourself." She replied evenly.

"We are grateful for the invitation." Ubbe told her, hoping to smooth over his younger brother's unpleasantness. "But may we ask _why_ you asked us here, Eydis?"

"Curiosity." The cup in her hand lifted and after a sip of wine she continued. "Many things are said about the Princes of Kattegat. We merely wished to meet you for ourselves."

"We are no longer princes."

"Circumstance can change with time. One day you may again wear crowns, if the Gods will it."

"How can you know that?"

"We know many things."

Sigurd swallowed another mouthful of the strange fragrant not-quite-wine and narrowed his eyes. The herbal smoke and the strength of the alcohol made his thoughts muggy. Suspicion was beginning to bud in his stomach and as words began to spill from his mouth, his brothers eyed him cautiously, tension brewing.

"We have heard things about you also."

"Well, Sigurd, that is not surprising." The figure shifted on its mound of cushions, pulling itself into an upright position. Ivar's throat tightened as Eydis' face drew into the light and he soaked in the sight of her as if she were the last drop of water on earth. "Gossip is often spurred by ignorance or fear. People say many things about us." Her tongue flicked out and wetted the corner of her mouth, as quick as a snake. "Some of it is even true."

Ivar had spent plenty of time piecing together an appropriate face to accompany that smooth, earth-like voice. In his dreams fragments of many faces had fitted themselves together, though none of the variations he had created had seemed quite right. Ivar's subconscious had melded together the dark hair and harsh angles of her brothers, the graceful sweep of Aslaug's nose, Sibbe's soft cupid's bow lips. But it had been all wrong. Ivar's gaze dragged over each of her features as if he were trying to memorise them. Her inky blue hair was tangled up into a rough crown of braids and there were smudges of black and gold around her eyes. Ivar's eyes drifted down the swanlike curve of her pale throat, over the exposed flesh of her shoulders and down tattooed arms. _The Ullacs certainly favour nakedness, don't they?_ Eydis' dress, if it could be called such, was a dusky yellow. Like the colour of Autumn Hawbit which grew on the hills in springtime. _Aslaug used to love those flowers_. The thin fabric was gathered up by a beaten metal collar at the base of her neck and the skirt was slashed daringly up one side, all the way to the hip.

A lot can be told about a man when he meets a beautiful woman for the first time. Especially by which part of that beautiful woman he decides to stare at. Take the sons of Ragnar for example. The moment that they laid eyes on Eydis, each boy seemed absorbed by a different piece of her. Hvitserk's eyes drifted to her hair, the colour of the ocean's depths and he began to imagine another woman. He wondered if Eydis would look better if she had silvery braids and softer angles, like Sibbe. Sigurd's eyes dipped immediately to the curved dagger sheathed on her mid-thigh, the polished metal winking at him in the shifting lantern light. And he wondered if the blade was as sharp as it looked. Ubbe stared at the hollows of her collarbones and wondered about the naked body that was beneath the thin fabric of her dress.

But Ivar was looking at something different. His gaze was caught by her left hand, and the ring which was settled there. And he wondered, who had put it there.

Brodir's daughter reached out with a bare, ivory arm and plucked up the wine jug. Ivar's gaze strayed instinctively to the large rune which had been branded on her upper arm. It had clearly been burned there some time ago because the mark was turning white around the edges. It was the same rune which had been painted on the wall of their cottage; the strong, simple lines somehow managing to look both bold and mysterious. _The mark of the Ullacs._ The crooked flash of teeth indicated that Eydis had caught Ivar staring at it, but she said nothing. Instead she poured a generous helping of syrupy scarlet liquid into their cups and they gulped it down so quickly that Eydis was forced to re-pour almost immediately. The thick, fragrant drink was addictive by nature. Not that the brothers could have known that at the time. All they could think about was how easily it slid down their throats and warmed their bellies. And, soon their heads were swimming.

"So tell me, Sigurd, what is it that you think you know about us?"

"People say the Ullacs are a cult. They say that you're dangerous."

"I would guess that you do not understand the ancient tongue of our homeland." Eydis tipped her cup in his direction slightly. "Nothing to be ashamed of, of course. Like you, many of our people have forgotten where they came from." The girl leant the crook of her elbow atop a ledge of cushions and surveyed him intently, luminous eyes glinting in the multi-coloured light. She swirled the almost-wine in her cup rhythmically. " _Ullac_ simply means outcast and that is what we are, that is what we have always been." _Blood sacrifice and earth magic. That is why people fear them._ Two naked shoulders curled and uncurled lithely. "People will always talk of things they do not understand. But I imagine, if you asked them, they would also tell you that our support can be very useful."

"I imagine Brodir will feed us the same words at one point or another."

"He may well. If you choose to trust those words, I cannot stop you."

"You are telling us not to trust him? I thought the Ullacs answered to your father." Hvitserk interjected. The sons of Ragnar were curious, there could be no denying that.

"He likes to believe so."

"So, they do not?"

"We answer only to the Gods."

"Why are you telling us this?" Ubbe asked quietly. "It seems like a conversation you should have with your own family."

She fixed her awful, wonderful gaze on him, assessing his worth. "When the Great Army returns from England, the Viking world will be a different place. A confusing place. You may find yourself in situations you never thought possible." Then she shrugged, almost nonchalantly. "The consequences of Ragnar's death are not yet played out. Only the Gods know what is in store for us." Something in the way her eyes glittered told Ivar otherwise. _She knows,_ he thought to himself, _somehow, she knows what is to come._

"Is it true that you gifted Lagertha an hourglass?" Hvitserk asked. The herbs had wound their way inside his mind and he felt almost as if he were speaking while under water. The air in the tent suddenly felt still and close and very warm. Hvitserk fiddled with the edge of his tunic sleeve. For a reason he couldn't explain, he felt a bizarre urge to strip off his clothes. His skin was burning hot. Abruptly it didn't seem strange to him that the Ullacs went around half naked, even on a frosty mid-winter evening such as that night.

"Yes." Came the purring response.

"Why?"

"Her days are numbered."

"As queen?" Ubbe voice was a little hoarse, as if he was nervous for the answer.

The mischievousness in her animal eyes suggested something darker than simply being usurped as ruler of Kattegat, but Eydis gave no answer. Her head tilted to the side, one slender paint-stained finger touching her earlobe gently. "The festival is beginning." With a gracefulness Ivar often equated with wolves, Eydis rose to her feet. His eyes crawled up the vast expanse of naked leg as if he was starving. "There will be time for politics later, now we must celebrate. Come."

As the entrance flaps were pulled open, the sons of Ragnar were met suddenly with the roaring heat, the scent of herbal smoke and the rowdy cries of an Ullac celebration. They stood in awe of it. The sheer hedonistic pleasure of it all. The drumming, the music of fiddles and bells, the dancing women. The sound of laughter. Everything was blurred and colourful. The half-naked crowd melded together, grinding and twisting in a sweat-slicked tangle of moving limbs. Couples lay together on the mossy ground smoking long wooden pipes and sharing languid kisses. The whole world dissolved into this one clearing, this one forest, this one Viking town. It felt as if the gods were there, watching. The Ullacs knew that for some reason, some immortal unbeknownst reason, they had been favoured. And they revelled in it.

* * *

"Where are my children, woman?"

Sibbe sipped her wine. "I am not sure, husband."

Brodir's fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his dinner knife. "You know how I feel about lying."

"Perhaps they went to the tavern."

"And they did not think to ask my opinion. How disrespectful."

As he usually was by this late hour, Brodir was drunk. Without his children or noblemen to impress, the King was lazier. His carefully maintained mask had been placed on the table top beside his many-times-empty wine cup. Sibbe was on edge. She had barely touched her food, the anxiety budding in her stomach was numbed only by the alcohol. Perhaps she should have stopped drinking, the way that her vision was beginning to blur indicated that she had already had too much, but she couldn't stop herself. Sibbe knew the hell that was coming her way and she knew all too well that without wine, it would be near intolerable. "My sons are out enjoying their youth and I am here with my lovely wife." He bared his teeth at her. Sibbe used to think it was a smile. "How _lucky_ I am."

"I feel very lucky also." She lied.

"You are not wearing the gift I bought you. A husband might think that his wife was not grateful."

"I am very grateful." Sibbe told him. Her words caught in her throat like a sticky piece of half-chewed food. "Mata took the necklace to polish it."

"Is that true, Mata?"

"Yes, my King." The serving girl hovering by the wall bowed her head respectfully.

"You would never lie to me, would you Mata?"

"No, my King."

"Do you know where my children are?"

"They went out drinking with the sons of Ragnar, my King."

"How inconsiderate of them."

Mata smiled emotionlessly. "Yes, my King."

"Sibbe," Brodir pointed his knife at his wife. "Perhaps you should take lessons from Mata."

"Lessons, husband?"

"She speaks to me with the correct respect."

"I apologise if I have offended you, husband. It was not my intention." Brodir leaned back into his chair, one hand cupping his wine lazily. His lips pulled back into a surprisingly attractive smile. It was one which Sibbe had almost forgotten. As she gazed at him across the table, she remembered how he had looked when they had first married. _Handsome._ Brodir tapped the edge of his knife against the table top rhythmically. He was calculating, she could feel it.

"Wife, I have become tired." The king pushed back his chair. "I will retire early." Sibbe's heart jumped with relief. "Mata will draw me a bath."

"Yes, my King."

As Brodir swept through the doors and down the corridor, the two women looked at each other for the first time. Mata was young and angular and looked like a real Viking woman. Sibbe admired her for that much, she had always felt too weak to identify as one of their people. The way that people looked at her, the way that they treated her, it was as if she were a bird with a broken wing. _Dappled sunlight on the surface of the open ocean_. Sibbe's eyes raked over the serving girl, all the time wondering whether she should be worried. Mata was beautiful and submissive and dark-haired like Brodir's first wife had been. But, frankly, Sibbe was grateful. She had craved a distraction for her husband for such a long time. If Brodir found himself a mistress, Sibbe would finally find herself some piece of mind.

"You should go and draw my husband's bath, Mata." Sibbe looked down at her plate. She interlinked her fingers, pressing the wedding band into her skin as hard as she could. Perhaps if it hurt enough, she would feel some shame for being pleased with the situation.

"I will, my Queen." The girl slunk forward until she reached the edge of the wooden table. "I have been given many duties."

"Duties?"

"Yes, my Queen was very clear."

"I did not tell you to do anything with my husband."

"Not you, Sibbe." Mata's astute eyes glinted in a way that Sibbe had not noticed before. Slowly her hand reached out and pulled the fabric of her dress sleeve up to the shoulder. "Eydis sent me."

Sibbe's hand touched her heart softly. "Why?" She already knew why, of course.

"She does not wish to see you suffer." Mata smoothed down the front of her dress with a shrug. "So, do not worry Sibbe. Your husband will not bother you any longer."

* * *

"Welcome to the Ullac clan, sons of Ragnar." Eydis glanced back at them. The flickering bonfire light latched onto the tattoo marked beneath her left eye. It seemed darker then, more mysterious. She gestured them to follow her and they did, striding across the clearing towards the edge of the bonfire. As the High Priestess walked Ivar could only stare at her. The daring cut of her dress revealed her entire back, but Ivar was not looking at the curve of her spine nor the muscles which spoke of hard training. No, his gaze was drawn to the four harsh scars which ran across the pale skin. They were old, older than her Ullac brand of that much he was sure. In the jumping light it was difficult to see properly, but they looked to be from a whip. _A whipping delivered with great anger._

"You know my mischievous brothers of course." And with that, Eydis walked away. It was only a stone's throw, but it was far enough that Ivar was forced to swallow away disappointment. She was talking to a man; a mountainous, shirtless man with a mop of wild dark hair. The way he was smiling at her, chuckling with her, it twisted Ivar's stomach.

"There's my boy." Ivar's eyes narrowed at the sound of a delighted squeal. A little boy was running towards Eydis and the half-naked man, untrained legs buckling and staggering as he picked up pace. She leaned down and scooped him up, balancing him on her hip and wiping a smudge of mud from his cheek playfully. For whatever reason, Ivar had not anticipated Ullac children. Though he realised quickly that that was a foolish notion. The tribe travelled together, as one. Of course, it made sense that the little ones would come along too. Ivar's eyes shifted across the camp and he began to notice more and more children. They were running wild, like feral animals; all dirty and laughing and free. They darted in between the legs of their parents and stole sips of herbal wine from the communal buckets. _They are a family._ Ivar reminded himself. The youngest son of Ragnar watched Eydis with the child, a relationship which seemed as easy as breathing and he felt a sudden and inexplicable stab of jealousy. _Was this her son?_

"Boys." Ivar's attention snapped back to his brothers and the twins. Varin grinned at them, clapping Hvitserk on the shoulder good naturedly. His voice had dropped an octave and his body swayed ever so slightly. During the meeting in Eydis' tent, the party had descended into a more untamed sort of celebration. The alcohol was freely flowing; large buckets of wine were spaced out around the camp and the Ullacs would simply dip a cup into the liquid whenever they felt like it. Eydis' brother had clearly partaken in more than his fair share.

Varin wiped away a trickle of crimson liquid from his chin with a paint stained hand and another smile. His muscular arm wound itself around the waist of an Ullac girl. There were a few of them clustered near the twins; all willowy looking with long unbraided hair and paint on their faces.

"Well, what do you think?" The dark-haired boy asked. "Is it what you expected?"

"Not exactly." Ubbe laughed. His head was beginning to spin and the urge to move, to dance, seemed to overcome him. Gudrik watched Ubbe's fingers twitch, his foot beginning to tap out an irregular rhythm, and he nudged the girl beside him teasingly.

"You've been drinking the brew, huh?" She giggled. The girl had these big blue eyes ringed with smudged black kohl. Eyes as wide and glassy as those should have been innocent but they weren't. The pupils were too large, too dark. They threatened to swallow him whole. The hungry way she was eying Ubbe made his heart beat faster.

Ubbe nodded jerkily. "A little."

"Want to try something stronger?"

"Don't play with them, Signe." Gudrik warned teasingly.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Eydis didn't tell us how handsome Ragnar's sons were." A red-haired girl purred, she reached out and curled one of Hvitserk's braids around the crook of her finger gently. "She must have been keeping you all for herself."

"Oh Alma, you know how greedy she is." Signe confirmed.

If the High Priestess heard (which Ivar suspected she did) she didn't react, her attention was focused on the muddy boy in her arms. Eydis was nodding along as if she understood his incoherent babbling perfectly. Ivar leant against the wooden wine bucket savouring the sights of the Ullac camp. He couldn't have been less distracted by the women crawling all over his brothers. In fact, he was glad. After all, the sooner they disappeared, the sooner he would get a chance to speak to Eydis alone.

"You should be wary of these two," Varin grinned wolfishly at the brothers. "Insatiable creatures, the pair of them."

"We appreciate the human form," Signe told him as she smoothed her hand over Ubbe's muscular chest. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing at all." Ubbe managed. Any thoughts of Margrethe had vanished from his mind. Signe's blue eyes were burning into him, the press of her curving body against his made his stomach tighten. For one night at least, he could forget about the former-slave he had decided to marry.

"Would you like to have some real fun?" The red-head murmured in Hvitserk's ear and the boy nodded shakily. _She isn't Sibbe, but she'll do_. And just like that, the eldest sons of Ragnar were dragged away into the swell of the crowd.

"What about you, Sigurd?" Varin tucked his thumbs into the crook of his belt. "Any women take your fancy?"

"They're all dirty." He grimaced.

Varin laughed out loud. "That is half their charm, friend." Then the twin took a swig of his wine and shrugged, striding past Sigurd and into the fray.


	6. Meraki

**PLEASE READ**

 **Hi everyone!**

 **Apologies for the long, long delay in getting this chapter out. I had terrible writer's block and really struggled putting the vivid picture in my mind down on paper – as a result, I am not particularly proud of this chapter, it is definitely not my best work so please don't judge it too harshly.**

 **ATTENTION – I know that when authors recommend music to accompany chapters, most people (including myself) just skip past and pay no attention.** **However,** **if you really want to get a good vision of what an Ullac celebration would be like please listen to "Berserkir" by Danheim. Their music is amazing and it's all on Spotify + Youtube. I found their music a while ago when I first started re-writing this story and it is incredible. There is another song which I used as inspiration for a later chapter and it really captures the scene perfectly.**

 **As always, any feedback/thoughts/ideas are appreciated.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **-E**

* * *

Chapter VI

 _ **Meraki**_ _– "To do something with passion, with absolute devotion, with undivided attention. No matter how difficult the task; it is done with all your heart."_

 _Origin: Greek_

* * *

When Ivar watched the marvels of the Ullac camp, it was as if he were lost in another world. For how long he remained still, spine braced against the wooden wine bucket, he was unsure. He had lost all track of time. The youngest son of Ragnar leant his skull against the bucket; watching, waiting. He drank in the sight of it all. The intoxicating savageness of it. Shirtless Ullacs tiptoed over beds of burning coals, laughing and hollering as the flaming embers licked at their bare feet. Half-naked women twirled and danced, the wild flowers in their loose hair gulping in glances of bonfire light. Glowing and colourful. Little children ducked in between the legs of the crowd and chased the Ullac pack dogs, as free as a far-northern breeze. For the longest time, Ivar's gaze had remained solely on Eydis. She had had that little boy balanced on her hip, bouncing him gently to the beat of the drumming. He was giggling away, tugging on the front of her yellow dress and blowing spit bubbles but Eydis didn't seem to mind. If the son of Ragnar squinted, he could see the ring on Eydis' left hand glinting in the firelight. _Wedding ring_. Every now and then the metal would flash, and Ivar's mind would churn with questions as to who had put it there. He wondered intently what the man might look like. He was probably tall and muscular and dark haired, tattooed and fierce and the kind of Viking that women dreamed of. Ivar had only glanced away for a moment, but when he searched for her once more, Eydis was gone. The little boy had been scooped up by another mountainous Ullac man and was being tossed into the air playfully until he squealed with laughter. Eydis had simply melted into the tangled, dancing crowd and Ivar immediately felt inexplicable disappointment at her disappearance. He pushed away the feeling bitterly and his gaze roved back towards the enormous crackling bonfire. Ivar's eyes narrowed. He noticed two Ullac men walking around the edge of the flames carrying buckets, scattering handfuls of something onto the fire. His head tilted, watching. With each handful, a pungent scent of dried herbs rose from the bonfire and suddenly the pieces slotted together in Ivar's mind.

"Ivar?"

"Huh?" His gaze snapped up to Gudrik's face. He hadn't heard a word the twin had been saying.

Gudrik smiled crookedly, a look brimming with amusement, and he slouched down into the grass beside the youngest son of Ragnar. "I asked if you wanted another drink." A cup was extended in Ivar's direction and he accepted it gratefully. "What do you think then?" Gudrik lifted a finger in the direction of the crowd. "Wild, no?"

"I like it."

"It seems your brother does not agree." Ivar's glanced in Sigurd's direction. The blonde boy was sitting atop a tree stump, brooding. He was whittling at a wooden stick with his dagger. Everything about him screamed resentfulness. Over the course of the evening, the Ullacs had tried to bring him into the fold; offering him cups of herbal wine, platters of food and teasing jokes, but Sigurd had remained stoic and unresponsive. It was clear he disapproved of this way of life. Dissatisfaction was rolling off him in waves and his eyes were narrowed moodily. Eventually the clan had given up and returned to their festivities; if Sigurd did not want to participate, they could not force him to. Gudrik chuckled good naturedly. "He's a stick in the mud, huh."

Ivar just shrugged, and his gaze moved slowly back to the little boy. He was balanced precariously on the man's shoulders, chewing sloppily on one of his hands and giggling. The Dagny boy followed the line of Ivar's eyes and he smiled gently.

"You want to meet him?"

Ivar shrugged again. Frankly he had no interest in meeting a child which he suspected to be Eydis', but he liked the twins well enough and didn't want to be openly rude when they had been so welcoming. Gudrik took the shrug as a yes and called over to the man juggling the boy that was more monkey than human. "Little Oleg!"

The mountain turned, waved and dumped the child down on his unsteady legs. The boy stumble-ran over to Gudrik as quickly as he was able, and the Dagny boy wrapped his muscular arms around him in a bear hug.

"Leif, this is Ivar. Say hello." Ivar's eyes raked carefully over the boy's face, identifying Dagny angles and Dagny green eyes. _Eydis' son._ Despite the unexpected anger beginning to surge through his bloodstream, Ivar extended a hand in the child's direction and Leif shook it with his tiny, chubby fingers.

"Hello Leif." There was a garbled response and a goofy, barely toothed smile in return, and Ivar suddenly felt a sort of sadness pulling at him. It was the sort of melancholy that he felt when he thought of Aslaug. _Melancholy born of loss._ He would never have sons of his own, he would never see them grow and thrive. He would never see them gain teeth and muscles and fire in their bellies. If blessed with a girl, he would have named her after his mother, and she would have grown up beautiful and fierce and touched by the Gods. _Just like her namesake_. His heart ached for those imaginary children.

"Off you go, little man." Gudrik pushed Leif in the direction of the bonfire gently and he was immediately swept up by a collection of Ullac girls. The blonde woman Ivar had seen with Gudrik before, the one with the facial tattoos and the silvery braids, gathered him up in her arms. She looked in their direction and smiled. Ivar's heartbeat faltered. The way she looked at Gudrik, the way she looked at Leif, it was an expression Ivar had only ever seen from Aslaug. It was a look of pure love. The twin leaned back on his elbows, seeming pleased. "He will be a heartbreaker that one."

"Seems like a good boy." Was Ivar's only answer.

"Yes, he is." Gudrik crossed his arms behind his head. "Are you good at keeping secrets, Ivar?"

The son of Ragnar's face snapped in Gudrik's direction. The question had been so unexpected that it took him a moment to answer. His response was the truth, because as all of Kattegat suspected, Ivar _was_ very good at hiding things.

"Yes."

"Leif is a Dagny."

Ivar's jaw clenched but he covered it with an absent shrug. "He looks like a Dagny."

"You mean he looks like Eydis."

"I suppose." _Yes._ "But you all look alike to me."

Gudrik chuckled throatily. "Yes we do, more so than the Ragnarssons at least." He took a deep gulp of his wine and sighed, gesturing lazily to his black mop. "The dark hair cuts through anything else. I suppose we can thank our mother for that."

"We heard that your mother died." The twin nodded, and Ivar continued to probe. Perhaps if he asked enough questions, the bitter thoughts he had of Aslaug would dissolve. "And Brodir has remarried twice, no?"

"Yes, three unfortunate women agreed to marry him. So?"

"So," Ivar continued. "He has no other children."

"My mother gave him four sons."

"But, no others?"

"Brodir has always been somewhat obsessed with progeny. Five children weren't enough for him." Gudrik chuckled, wiping a stray drip of wine from his mouth. "After my mother died in childbirth, Brodir waited an appropriate amount of time before remarrying."

"How long?"

"Two months." The Dagny boy grinned insincerely once again. "After that Brodir married my step-mother, Mahon. She was a decent enough woman, sort of skittish but kind enough. She tried for years to give my father a child."

Ivar glanced at him cautiously. He wasn't particularly keen on getting involved in familial politics, despite his curiosity being what brought it up. It made him uncomfortable. Eventually he decided to pose another question. "She failed then?"

Gudrik nodded. "Eydis believes that Brodir offended the Gods by re-marrying so early. She believes our mother was gifted and that the Gods cursed him because of it. Poor Mahon managed a few stillbirths, but no healthy children came." The twin shrugged. "That's why Brodir divorced her and married Sibbe, I suppose he thought a younger woman would give him more children, but none have come so far."

The Dagny boy lifted his cup to his lips, watching Leif and the blonde vixen bouncing him on her hip. "I can't say I blame Brodir necessarily." There was a strange expression on his face; one which spoke of love and longing. "Children are what make life worthwhile. Don't you think?"

"I would not know."

"Maybe not yet."

Ivar's head bowed angrily. _It isn't fair._ "I do not want children."

Gudrik laughed out loud, his shoulders trembling with the exertion. "Oh Ivar, you and I both know that you're lying. Every man dreams of having a son."

Ivar changed the subject. He didn't want to answer that, he didn't want to admit anything. _I want a son._ "If Brodir is so desperate for more sons, why hasn't he taken a mistress? Plenty of influential families have bastards among them."

"Not Dagny." Gudrik was watching the little boy intently. "Bastards are thought to weaken our family name."

"Why?"

"My father views them as weeds and if he finds one, he rips them out _root_ and _stem_." The twin snorted back a laugh loaded with derision and swirled the dregs of wine in his cup. "In recent years, my father has become a _very_ avid gardener." There was a long stretch of uncomfortable silence between them before the twin continued. "My father would have Leif drowned if he knew. That's why he lives with his mother and the Ullacs."

Ivar opened his mouth to protest but Gudrik's raised eyebrow stopped the words from emerging. Truthfully, the sons of Ragnar weren't sure exactly _what_ Brodir was capable of. That was what made him so dangerous. Ivar's brow crinkled in disgust. "Brodir would have his own grandchild killed?"

Gudrik pressed a finger to his crooked lips and refilled their cups. He had almost forgotten how shocking House Dagny's familial politics could seem to outsiders, it had been so long since he was able to discuss it with anyone. The twin sipped his drink and inhaled the herbal scent of it deeply, the smell smoothing out the pangs of anxiety growing in his chest. "You have to understand, Ivar. The more time that you spend in this camp, the more secrets you will learn. Nothing is hidden here." Ivar's eyes flickered instinctively over Gudrik's naked torso and up the length of his left arm. But there was no brand. _He is not an Ullac._ Gudrik's eyes were unusually serious as he gazed at Ivar then and it suddenly dawned on the son of Ragnar, how different Eydis' eyes were to the rest of her family. That queer yellow ring around the edge of the iris. Surely that was something which would have been passed on to Leif. "But you must never breathe a word of what you learn to outsiders."

"I wouldn't." _I wouldn't have anyone to tell._ Ivar's fingers curled around his cup tightly. As much as he inexplicably hated the fact that Eydis had a son, he wouldn't contribute to the slaughter of an innocent child. Except the child he had murdered himself of course. _He should have let me play with the ball_. Ivar shook away the thought. His vinegar soul was wriggling uncomfortably under his skin. "I wouldn't want to put Eydis' child in danger."

Gudrik's face twisted in surprise. "Leif isn't my sister's child, Ivar." There was a beat of silence. "He's mine."

* * *

"Come meet our friends."

Signe glanced over her shoulder at the brothers and grinned. Ubbe's gaze was immediately caught by the crooked line of her teeth. They should have been unattractive, as misshapen as they were, but for some reason (perhaps the herbal wine or the bouncing firelight) they glowed. Her smile was so warm and inviting, it made the eldest son of Ragnar ache. Ubbe had the sudden urge to fit his mouth over hers, to match crooked teeth with crooked teeth, to pair wine-soaked tongues. Signe tossed her long wild curls with a flick of her hand and then lifted an arm to wave at the group ahead.

The collection of young Ullacs were stretched out in the grass; laughing and smearing each other with streaks of grey-white paint. Alma ran the last couple of feet towards them and leapt into the lap of one of the shirtless men. The man's hands squeezed Alma's hips roughly and he rolled her into the grass, nuzzling his face against the crook of her neck. Hvitserk paused haltingly, for the first time since they entered the Ullac camp the brothers almost felt uncomfortable. The longer they looked at the intimacy shared by those young clansmen, the more that they felt they were intruding. Signe turned fully in their direction and caught their hands in hers.

"You are nervous," Her head tilted as she looked at them. One of her eyebrows raised playfully "I can _smell_ it." She tugged them in direction of the group with a chuckle. "Come and play with us."

A flurry of greetings sounded from the group in a language that the brothers could not understand. Signe seemed to be introducing them, and as the brothers slumped down onto the ground they were met with bright, friendly smiles and claps on the shoulder. It struck the sons of Ragnar how welcoming the Ullacs were, that they were such an open and accepting people, and it suddenly seemed strange that outsiders were so wary of them. Signe passed out more cups of herbal wine and the brothers accepted immediately. The intense feeling of intoxication was beginning to wear off and they craved its return desperately. Of course, they had not known when they had taken the first cup in Eydis' tent that it was extremely addictive. As the wine slipped down their throats, the brothers shivered. Their heart rates increased, a slight burning sensation spread out in their stomachs.

The man beside Alma laughed again, his crooked mouth tucked up into a big smile. He was talking to the girls in their native tongue again, glassy eyes sparkling impishly as he smudged his paint-stained hand over Alma's cheek.

"What's he saying?" Ubbe asked.

"Sorry, sorry." The blonde man held up his hands, chuckling. "I forget that outsiders do not speak the Old Tongue." He offered a hand in their direction. "I am Galon, Signe's older brother. Good to meet you."

"Good to meet you." Hvitserk replied. His eyes dragged over the exposed flesh of Galon's enormous, muscular torso. _How do the Ullacs breed men so big?_ There were streaks of paint smoothed over his ribs, over the sloping lines of his shoulders, over the hilt of his chin. "So," He began slowly; cautiously, curiously. "Did you and Signe join the Ullacs together?"

"Mmhm," Galon shrugged.

"How long ago?"

"A while." Signe confirmed abstractly.

"How?"

Galon laughed that booming laugh of his. "You ask a lot of questions, son of Ragnar."

"I am curious."

"Thinking of signing up are you, Hvitserk?" Signe grinned crookedly.

"Ignore my little sister." Galon raised his hands in appeasement. "If you have questions, you should go to Eydis. She has all the answers."

"So," They're attention snapped rapidly to the red-head. "Are you going to share?" Alma nudged Galon with her elbow roughly and, after another warm laugh, Galon handed over a large wooden bowl. She stirred the claggy paint with a spoon and glanced in Signe's direction. "Sig?"

The other girl shifted closer, and the sons of Ragnar watched curiously as Alma dipped her hands into the bowl, rubbing paint between the pads of her fingers. Then she dragged her touch, sensuously soft, over the tilt of Signe's lips and down the length of her pale throat. The girl shivered noticeably and when her heavily-lidded eyes opened they were dark with excitement and desire. Signe licked her over-sized scarlet lips, those bent teeth glinting in another smile. The girls giggled, faces close together, breathless mouths just an inch apart. Signe's paint-soaked fingers slipped the straps of Alma's dress down, raking over her collarbones and down the swell of her cleavage. Their breathless mouths touched for half a second, as soft as a whisper, before they pulled away from each other. For the brothers, it was too much. It was all too much. They had never seen women that were so free, so at peace with their sexuality and their wildness. But the Ullac men didn't seem to even notice, perhaps they were so used to it that it no longer mattered to them. Galon had reclined on the ground and was watching the stars rather than the girls.

"What is that stuff?" Hvisterk's eyebrow raised.

"Stain." Signe's voice slurred, and she slouched back on the grass, cleavage swelling with each deep inhale of clear night air. "For the festival."

"What does it do?"

Alma leaned up on one elbow and pushed away a curtain of blood-coloured curls lazily. Her eyes were glazed as she looked at the brothers. "Try it and find out."

Frankly, the brothers were curious. They could not understand how streaks of crumbling white paint could affect them at all. But they watched the way that Signe's body trembled, and Alma's pupils grew and grew, gorging on firelight. The peculiarity of their situation and the pounding of herbal wine in their veins forced the sons of Ragnar to reconsider their options. Hvitserk chewed on his lip, eying the bowl of paint cautiously. Then the brothers glanced at each other and finally shrugged in agreement. Signe rolled over, sat up and dipped her hands into the paint bowl once more.

"Come here." She murmured.

Ubbe held out his arm and the girl smoothed a line of paint up the crook of his wrist, along the lines of his veins. She lifted her other hand and smeared a grey-white streak over his temple and into his braids. Hvitserk watched as his older brother's head lolled backwards and a deep _huff_ of breath expelled itself from his lungs. Ubbe's shoulders slackened and his body crumpled down onto the soggy grass like a bucket of spilled apples.

"What did you do to him?" Hvitserk demanded. Unexpected fear was clutching at the strings of his voice, the words came out all scratchy. Signe pulled herself upright, as if it took all the effort in the world and then rolled her glassy eyes at him.

"Do you think I'm hurting him, huh? Did we invite you here to _kill_ you, Hvitserk?" The girl snorted derisively as she smoothed paint between the pads of her fingers. "At least your brother isn't frightened."

"I am not frightened." The son of Ragnar rebuffed her, more roughly than he meant to and Signe's teeth pulled back into another teasing grin. _They are only playing,_ Hvitserk reminded himself.

"Yes, you are." Signe lifted her hands and smeared the paint over the crown of her head slowly. The girl chuckled throatily as she leaned back down onto the ground. "All you outsiders think that _we're_ the strange ones, but you are the ones too afraid to see the truth."

"What do you mean truth?"

"What do you think I mean? I mean _truth._ The things that _we_ can see, and _you_ cannot."

"I can see the truth."

"You may think so, but you are wrong."

Hvitserk sat up straighter. His pride had been bruised. "Then show me the truth you speak of."

" _Ahh_ ," Alma purred from where she lay near Hvitserk's elbow. "I don't think you could handle _this_ , son of Ragnar."

"He said he wanted to try something stronger." Signe's teeth flashed in the glow of the bonfire. "Let the boy try." Her laugh caught in her throat. "Maybe he will become a man."

"Maybe he will _die_." Galon murmured teasingly.

"Maybe he _won't._ The older one looks alright."

"Fine." Alma shifted up, crossing her legs and gazing deeply into Hvitserk's eyes. "Let us see what you're made of, my love."

* * *

As the moon crested and the clearing became bathed in melting silver rays, droopy eyed children were being carried off bed. Small, nearly-sleeping, girls were gathered up in the tree-like arms of their fathers and taken to communal nests of blankets and furs at the edge of the crowd. There were numerous children curled up together, snuggled down in piles of woollen blankets; some struggling to keep awake to watch the festival, others knocked out entirely. It wasn't surprising really. Time seemed to move differently there in the Ullac camp; minutes melded into hours, hours into days. But eventually all children meet their limit and can no longer keep up with their parents. Ivar was watching Leif again; his tiny, chubby hand was held securely by the blonde woman ( _his mother_ , Ivar reminded himself) as he toddled towards the other children. The woman tousled his dark curls playfully and then left him to drift off to sleep with the other Ullac offspring.

There was so much to see, to watch. Ivar's wine-soaked gazed scorched over it all. The brew they had been drinking made his heart beat as quickly and intensely as the drums, and his already keen eyesight had sharpened considerably. The drink had a strange quality to it. Unlike traditional wine, which made the drinker slower and sloppier over time, brew expanded the mind. Colours were more vivid. Food taster better. Even the wind sounded more musical. The crowd, which had once seemed like a blurred frenzy, so many quaking bodies melding together, was now completely clear. Ivar could suddenly see each trembling limb, each trickle of sweat, each protruding vein. He could see it all. It was as if Ivar were looking at the world with fresh eyes. Everything was so magnified, so enhanced. It took his breath away. Every so often, Ivar's eyes would move to his brothers. They were now shirtless and crusted with white-grey paint, dancing and twisting wildly with some half-naked Ullac women. Hvitserk's head lolled backwards and he howled at the moon, as free as a wolf. _They are already part of the tribe_. Ivar rolled his eyes bitterly and he downed another cup of wine. _That should be me._ He wished suddenly that he was the one up there; shirtless and painted, dancing with Eydis, running his fingers through her blue curls.

Ivar's train of thought was cut off abruptly by the echoing, booming sound of a ceremonial horn. It was so loud that shivers rose on every inch of his skin. The dancing crowd shuddered, like a cornfield in a breeze, and then came to a stop. A sense of reverence seemed to overcome the gathered Ullacs. Even Hvitserk and Ubbe, whose pupils were unnaturally swollen and whose bodies where shivering with the need to dance, sensed that something was happening and fell still. Every face turned in one direction and Ivar shadowed them immediately. _What are they waiting for?_ The drumming faltered, and a quivering silence followed, steeped in anticipation.

The clearing fell unnervingly still. Everything was silent. Until the sound of cawing ravens began to echo, they landed in the branches of nearby trees and stared down at the gathered assembly with wet, intelligent eyes. Ivar felt the brush of Aslaug's ghostly fingers over the back of his neck and he had the sudden and unmistakable feeling that the Gods were watching. Far in the distance an owl hooted. The trees encircling the clearing swayed in a sudden breeze, ancient bows creaking and rattling. Then, a steady stream of resonating drum beats fractured the quiet. This music was different. It was reverent, echoing, full of mystery. It lacked the savageness of music played earlier in the evening, but it had the sense of deeper meaning. The air in the clearing ached with age-old connection. The Ullacs began to stamp their feet, the tiny bells braided to their anklets clinking loudly with each movement. Ivar swallowed. _It is beginning._ The crowd began to chant; a deep and soulful sound which reverberated around the forest.

Ivar watched as three figures crossed the dirt ground towards the bonfire. The first was a man, the enormous titan that had been juggling Leif _. Little Oleg_ , Ivar recalled suddenly _. Why do they call him Little?_ His shirtless torso gleamed in the glow of the fire, pearl white and covered in a sheen of sweat. The way that his shaggy, dark hair fell into his eyes was such a strong contrast against his pale skin. Another man followed behind, older and more worn but still corded with muscle, and a woman brought up the rear of the line. There was darkness to her which seemed to ebb and flow from her skin like curling smoke. She was taller than the average woman but not so much to stand out; it was her face which had caught Ivar's attention. The long, curving, ragged scar which dragged along the left side of her face. Ivar watched as the flickering light caught it. As if she could feel an outsider's eyes on her, the strange dark woman turned her face and looked directly at him. There were so many emotions trapped in those eyes. So much pent-up hatred and pain, so much love and affection. It was a confusing mix and yet one that Ivar understood all too well. He soaked in her liquid grey eyes and almost shivered. They were the colour of day-old ice and just as cold.

The three figures lined up in front of the jumping flames and fell still. They waited; but for _what_ they waited, Ivar was unsure. The clearing was consumed with the drumming and the humming and the tinkling of tiny bells. Then Ivar's eyes fell on her, the one he had been so desperate to see. Eydis approached. The trails of her yellow dress billowing in the breeze. She was flanked by four Ullacs; two men and two women. Ivar recognised the elegant older woman as the one who had led his brothers to Eydis' tent. _Ranvieg._ But his survey of the others was brief and callous, Ivar's attention was solely absorbed by Eydis. That blue-haired, black-and-gold painted creature. It was the first time that Ivar realised she wasn't wearing shoes; her bare feet stained black from the dirty ground. He was not alone in his staring of course, every eye turned on her. She was their leader after all. _The High Priestess of the Ullacs._ There was a liquid, rippling quality to the way that she moved that enchanted him. All who were gathered in that clearing knew that she was different, that she had been touched with magic, that she wasn't entirely human.

The five (The Original Five, as Ivar would later discover) came to a stop and linked their arms together; grasping each other by the forearm so that they formed the five points of a star. The chanting swelled, in a language that Ivar couldn't understand (no matter how he tried to) and enveloped everything and everyone. It was so loud. The trees shook with the strength of it. The Ullac council bowed their heads as if in intense concentration and then parted. Ranvieg lifted a wooden bowl and allowed each of the three a long, deep sip. Ivar wondered if it was just more brew in that bowl, but eventually he decided that it must be something different, something stronger.

One of the men; a brow-wrinkled bear lifted a metal rod from the edge of the bonfire. _The branding iron._ The end burned vivid orange and ember red, tinged with white. It was placed into Eydis' hands and slowly, ever so slowly, she laid it onto Little Oleg's skin. No sound of pain emitted his lips. Instead his head lolled backward, and a _huff_ of exquisite pleasure escaped him. Ivar was reminded suddenly of the noise a man made when he finished inside a woman. He had heard that sound many times when he had followed his brothers and Margrethe. All the muscles in Little Oleg's gigantic torso strained and then relaxed, and his body crumpled backwards into the slightly damp grass. The other man and the woman followed. They were kissed by the branding iron and then collapsed onto the ground. A mighty, all encompassing cheer went up from the crowd. Even from Ubbe and Hvitserk who, like children, did not fully comprehend the situation but went along with the mood of the adults. No words were spoken. Eydis lifted the branding iron into the air with one naked, swan-white arm and the Ullacs erupted into in celebration.

Ivar watched in wonder as the drumming took up a different, more fervent tempo. The half-naked Ullacs stamped their feet and pounded their chests furiously. A guttural, groaning chant went up from the crowd and the entire clearing became a blurring mess of moving bodies once more; leaning forward and backwards like a shuddering wave. Eydis was still. Her bleached skin, illuminated by the bonfire light, seemed to Ivar like a piece of marble. Like a statue he had seen in King Ecbert's royal villa. Every loose tendril of ink blue hair glowed against the flames. The crowd pulsed and vibrated and twisted around her. The imprint of their shadows against the bonfire seemed almost magical.

Then, as if instinctively, the drumming ceased and only the echoing sound of ancient singing remained. The unconscious trio on the ground shivered, opened their eyes and slowly (like a baby animal on fresh legs) climbed to their feet. The Ullacs moved towards them, placing hand after hand on them. As if those three were the sun and all the other clansmen were its swirling rays. The atmosphere of community and acceptance swelled to stifling levels.

In a flash, the music exploded once more and Ivar watched Little Oleg embrace his new brothers, a grin of sheer joy plastered all over his young face. The fire dancers lifted their flaming batons to their lips and spat a stream of curling fire up into the air. The clearing was consumed in the fierce, animalistic eruption of dancing and cheers. Even the Ullac Council joined the fray. Ivar's eyes raked over Eydis' dancing form. The way that she spun, her slashed yellow skirt spilling out around her like the petals of a budding flower. And in that moment, the youngest son of Ragnar wished more than _anything_ that he could walk. Little Oleg staggered through the tangle towards the High Priestess and placed his forehead onto hers. _The way that he looks at her._ Ivar's stomach twisted in poisonous, green envy. _Was it him who put the ring on her finger?_ They swayed together, and Ivar kept losing track of them between the twining figures of the crowd. The dancing altered and the Ullacs began to throb. They churned in a circle around the trio and the Council. It seemed to Ivar like a storm, like a hurricane. Little Oleg thrust his unnecessarily muscular arms into the air and roared with pride. _They are Ullac now._ Ivar just watched Eydis, and her yellow dress and the way that the firelight gleamed on her skin, with an unexpected longing.

Eydis turned her face to him and the yellow ring around her iris glowed fiercely. _Animal Eyes_. And, as he looked around the camp, Ivar suddenly felt as if he were caught in a snare. The Ullacs had lured them in with women and wine and intrigue, and the sons of Ragnar had rushed into the trap willingly. Ivar couldn't be sure what the Dagny children were planning, but his senses were tingling. _Something is coming._ Something that required allies. Something beyond their raid to England. Ivar's eyes flashed back to Eydis and, as if she could hear his thoughts, she offered an almost imperceptible nod.

Something is coming.


End file.
